


Brave New World

by fractalserpentine, HopeofDawn



Category: Legacy of Kain
Genre: Bloodplay, Bondage, Dom/sub, M/M, Mind Games, Painplay, Rating: NC17, Size Kink, Torture, Vampire Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-04-08
Updated: 2012-02-07
Packaged: 2017-10-17 18:48:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 84,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/180073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fractalserpentine/pseuds/fractalserpentine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopeofDawn/pseuds/HopeofDawn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kain's young brood fends without him, and Vorador takes notice.  Post BO2.</p><p>Laid flat by the blow, Raziel’s head cracked hard against the marble floor. His hand spasmed, the hilt of the katana jarred from his grip to skitter across the stone. Wheezing for breath he no longer needed, ears ringing, his eyes widened as he took in Vorador’s stance above him, the great hammer swinging upward to come down in one great crushing blow--</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Errands

Kain was furious.

Not on account of any of them, and that was a very great blessing indeed. But that cold rage was nevertheless palpable as the forefront of a storm, and their Sire’s displeasure set all of Raziel’s brethren upon edge, made them cautious, made them snappish. More than normal, anyway.

The move hadn’t helped, either. From a comfortable manor house leagues outside Freeport, conveniently close to the largest inland road with all its many autumn travelers and merchants who’d not be missed for months, Kain led them towards the city itself, taking circuitous routes through deep woods and places without trails. There had been no explanation -- not, of course, that one could be expected -- but also none of the usual warnings of threat or discovery. No Sarafan, hunters, hostages to interrogate... nothing. On the old manor’s balcony, behind them, a single large raven had watched their departure.

His fledglings followed Kain not into the finer districts near the wharves, where dwelt clean-scented but well-guarded prey -- no, Kain led them to the slums, those tangled and decaying warrens infested thick with the scrapings of humanity, to a warehouse which leaned drunkenly against its neighbors, making of the leaking roofs a wide highway. Three of the exterior walls and some few of the interior were good stone; the warehouse would not catch fire easily. A cellar with several half-hidden entrances, once used for smuggling, was certain shelter from the sun. The mouldering structure had even supplied a day’s repast -- a prostitute and several common street thieves, the former probably serving as the latter’s bait each eve. But there, the benefits to abiding in this wretched place ended.

This warehouse and its environs were not unknown to Raziel; he’d resided here for a span of time some decades before, though the place was considerably more dilapidated now. Turel had been with them, then, though he likely recalled little of that. The place had been small enough for the two of them then: now they were five. Worse, Turel was beginning to develop territorial imperative -- the urge to claim and defend hunting grounds, as well as all manner of other objects or resources which caught his eye -- and as usual, Dumah aped his elders.

While there were no gendarmes here, these streets were neither kind nor easy places. A mob could be just as dangerous as a Sarafan squad; even sufficiently determined highwaymen or a band of addicts might prove more than the youngest among them could handle.

The warehouse was far from ideal. Yet there Kain had left them upon errands unstated, to squabble over the four captured mortals. When he finally returned, Rahab was reading quietly atop a ruined wall, leaving the dregs of his meal to Zephon, who worried violently at the corpse. Dumah was just finishing, Turel still toyed with his mortal. Rahab glanced up, laying a strip of fabric across his place in the pages, and then Raziel could feel it too -- an electric crawl over the skin, a sense of pressure, of weight, growing stronger as the flock of darksome bats reformed upon the sagging rooftop.

Moments later, Kain sought his firstborn’s mind. _Attend me, Raziel._

Raziel immediately climbed to his feet, concealing his trepidation from his brethren even as he sent a wordless acknowledgment in reply. Whispering was still difficult, requiring a degree of concentration and mental discipline that he found hard to sustain. He was also uneasily aware of his own unformed worries at Kain’s sudden decision to have them relocate, and aware of how easily his sire could pick them from the underthoughts of his mind.

Still, hesitation would only invite punishment, and in Kain’s current temper, that punishment was likely to be severe. Leaving the others behind to their own pursuits, confident that they would not stray with Kain in residence, he climbed upward, picking his way up leaning, half-rotted staircases until he could pull himself upon the roof where his sire awaited.

“As you commanded, sire,” he said simply, stopping a few paces away from where Kain stood, looking out upon the jumbled roofs and alleys that made up their environs. Close enough to be to hand, not so close as to have his sire mistake his approach as a precursor to attack, or to be spotted by any stray humans down below. It had taken him a great deal of time to understand such niceties; and having now dealt with it himself in the form of his younger brethren--Dumah especially--he often wondered how Kain had found the patience to beat such courtesies into him instead of simply killing him out of hand.

His Sire seemed not to acknowledge Raziel’s presence for a moment -- a good sign, for if the younger vampire had misstepped, Kain would have made certain he knew it. Kain’s eyes narrowed slightly, gold gaze tense as he took the measure of their surrounds. Down in the twisting and oft-blind alleys, sugar-eaters roamed -- those who had managed to buy or steal one of the little paper-wrapped packets of powder wandered in a narcotic haze; those who had not crept with murderous desperation. Through the wider lanes, carts loaded with farmers’ harvests were filtering into the city, as did the first dim rays of dawn. A breeze wafted scents indescribable as hovel inhabitants emptied the night’s chamberpots into the open sewers that lined the street.

The long mane of Kain’s hair made a soft and silken shushing sound against the ridges of his armor as he tilted his head, listening. The voices below were wisely kept to a murmur, save for Dumah’s harsh bark of laughter, quickly shushed. Ah, there: muffled cries and a scuffle a street or two away, as yet another mortal fell prey to his own kind, the price of life a few copper coins.

Such a waste of blood.

Kain considered, for a moment, scavenging the kill before the victim bled out entirely, but a glance at his firstborn suggested there was no need. Raziel’s skin was faintly flushed and supple with feeding, his stance and the set of his mind were strong -- albeit undeniably apprehensive. A pity Kain had no time to beat that trace of weakness from his whelp. “I depart this day to retrieve another of your brothers. Tell me, Raziel, how much of this terrain do you remember?”

*Another* brother? Four was more than enough in Raziel’s estimation, though he was hardly fool enough to say so in front of his sire. “I remember our hunting grounds, and most of the places we sought refuge,” he said cautiously. “Though I cannot say what still remains, and what has changed.” The necessity of keeping his brethren secret and safe, as well as Kain’s command, had prevented him from venturing far from their chosen lair. “You wish us to remain here in your absence, sire?” He tried not to let his doubts show in his voice; while there was hunting aplenty amongst the human trash of this place, it was also imperfectly defensible. It would be … difficult … to keep his fractious brethren quiescent enough to keep the neighboring humans from taking notice. All it would take would be one escaped human running to their local priest screeching about the foul and unnatural demons that had attacked him, and the hunters could well find themselves the hunted instead.

Yet surely Kain had already taken this into account. Which meant that there must be other, larger concerns that made such risks necessary.

The corner of Kain’s mouth twisted, a subtle gesture but one that exposed the tip of a leonine fang. “I did not bring you here in sport, Raziel. Yes, you are to remain here, permitting none to venture further than this district.” Kain turned his eyes back to the chaos of the city without. As he spoke, he placed images into Raziel’s minds-eye, crisp and detailed as if freshly observed. “The watertower tunnels remain unsealed, as does the oubliette of clockmakers’ square, and the sand warrens.” There were thousands of boltholes in the sprawl, but some were better than others.

Kain’s hands tightened on the broken railing that meandered along the edge of the rooftop. His nails split the weathered wood as if it were pressed paper. “At what distance can you sense Turel’s presence?”

“Turel?” The question took a little thought. Second behind Raziel in age, Turel was reasonably advanced beyond the instinctual drives and foolhardiness of their other, younger brethren, but he had not yet truly come into his own power. Something that, in truth, Raziel had not truly achieved either, though he had naught but his sire to use in comparison.

“A half-mile easily,” he answered finally. “A mile with some concentration, assuming he is not injured, or some other manner of interference.” Holy magics, for example, could dampen or obfuscate a vampire’s darksome aura entirely; as could the power of another, more potent vampire.

Kain growled quietly, a short rumble of temper. A half-mile would provide very little warning, though it was better than none at all. If only he could wait longer, even a few years... but then, if wishes were armies, he’d have taken the entire continent by now. “This structure is well-warded against a variety of threats, including a most unlikely one. Nevertheless, you will heed me now: should you sense another presence, as unlike me as Turel’s aura is unlike yours, you shall make certain your brethren take shelter in the cellars here. Do you understand?”

Raziel inclined his head, acknowledging the command. “Yes, sire.” Regardless of his own misgivings, Kain’s orders were absolute. And yet …. “This presence. It is … another vampire?” For he had never known of any others, save Kain and his brethren. If another existed, one that his sire feared (no, not fear--Kain did not fear any creature, demon or vampire), how was it he had never heard of it?

“In a manner of speaking.” Kain watched Raziel for a moment, his ancient gaze as always seeming to strip away those careful layers, the reserve and the caution, leaving Raziel bleeding and bare. “It will not strike at me, not directly. But if you permit your brethren to scatter, or draw heedless attention, it may seek you out.” Kain stalked the few steps to his firstborn, lifted a hand, stroked a knuckle lightly up from the hollow of Raziel’s throat. “Such a happenstance would displease me. Greatly.”

Raziel’s golden gaze grew heavy-lidded under that touch, a frisson of _threat/pleasure/protection_ running over his skin as he tipped his chin upward fractionally, opening himself to whatever his sire demanded of him, whether pain or pleasure. Under that submission, however, there was a spark of fire at the challenge posed by this unknown threat. Raziel was a single-minded creature by nature; given a purpose, a goal, whether it be a hunt or a cellar full of fledglings to protect, he would pursue it with a focused ferocity that did not admit the possibility of failure. It was a weakness that Kain had exploited more than once in the past, especially when employing stratagems to keep his wayward fledgling in line; yet it was also a strength. If Kain commanded him to a purpose, Raziel would see it done, regardless of the cost. “I shall ensure it does not, my lord.”

“Good.” Kain permitted himself to savor the softness of his fledgling’s skin, the sweetness of that proud and graceful submission. There was nothing of flinching in it, nothing of fear. Only a steel-textured yielding, an openness that delighted, that tempted -- as beckoning as a blade forged perfectly to its master’s hand.

The thought of losing this to Vorador’s covetous grasp was new fuel for the frustrated rage. Tempting, too, to carve release for that emotion as well upon yielding skin... but Kain withdrew his hand. The sooner he left, the sooner he might be back. “I shall return a tenday from now, no more than two.” The corner of Kain’s mouth twitched. “And, Raziel. See that Turel refrains from disemboweling Dumah again.”

And then Kain was gone, vanished with a breath of displaced air, his aura disappearing as if it had never been, leaving a void and an emptiness that ached. In the sudden silence, the hissing of angry fledglings was perfectly audible.

Raziel drew in a deep breath, then released it in a gusty sigh. To keep four fledgling vampires penned for a tenday would be challenge indeed. After one last look from his lofty vantage point, he headed back downwards, to the cellar where his brothers awaited.

Which did not mean that their waiting had been peaceable; Raziel could hear the snarls and scufflings long before he reached their lair. He pulled open the heavy door, slipping inside, and took in the sight before him: Turel and Dumah, locked in combat, grappling upon the stones, fangs bared as they vied for an advantage in which to sink them deep into a vulnerable point. Minor wounds already decorated pale skin, bruises blooming and fading, thin cuts that healed more slowly. And nearby … Raziel’s eyes narrowed. Nearby, Zephon was greedily feasting upon the body of Raziel’s own kill, now that Turel was too preoccupied to defend it.

“Enough!” he barked, striding forward. Grabbing Turel by the hair, Raziel yanked him forcibly backwards, driving a booted foot into Dumah’s chest when the younger vampire tried to pursue the opening given to him. Sent sprawling upon the floor, Dumah rolled again to his feet, little the worse for the wear, while Turel twisted within his elder brother’s grip, wrapping hands crushingly-tight about Raziel’s wrist and growling.

“Release me! That little sneakthief stole my blade!”

“I stole nothing -- I found it!” Dumah snarled hotly, pulling the dagger from his belt. The slim, flame-wave dagger, capped with an emerald the size of a pigeon egg, was a fine prize indeed. And he had found it: in a pocket of his cloak, actually. The route by which the blade had gotten itself *there* was of no concern to him -- it was Dumah’s now. “And now it’ll find your lying tongue, Turel!” Dumah lunged.

Crouched beside the remains of Raziel’s meal, Zephon swallowed hurriedly, scrubbed the back of his hand across his mouth. He tilted his head, watching the conflict before him with a fledgling’s bright and curiously calculating eyes. Then his attention drifted to the other pair of near-corpses, the ones he’d not yet tasted. Dumah’s was too perforated and too close to death, but Turel had taken the woman, and she lay sprawled and semi-conscious in a tangle of her own petticoats. His eyes narrowed in an expression of sudden slyness. On all fours, Zephon sidled like a crab towards the mortal.

Flinging Turel backwards, out of the way, Raziel intercepted Dumah’s charge. One pale hand snapped out with unnatural speed, black-taloned fingers plucking the dagger from the younger vampire’s grasp. The other seized the front of Dumah’s tunic and lifted, Raziel pivoting as he used his younger sibling’s own momentum against him and slammed him brutally to the floor. The impact shook dust from the rafters, and would have broken bones in a human. Dumah, however, was hardly so delicate a creature; he did not whimper or wail in pain, but merely lay where he had fallen, blinking dumbly at the ceiling as if trying to recollect how he had come to be there.

Turel snarled and stepped forward, his hand outstretched as if to take his treasure back--then stopped short as Raziel planted the point of it very precisely over his heart.

“Tell me, brother,” Raziel said, deceptively mild. “Was it your intention to trade this for your evening’s repast?” He tilted his head meaningfully towards where Turel had left his prey; a woman over which Zephon was now crouched, sinking fangs into her pale neck and drinking greedily. “For if so, it appears our newest addition has gotten the better bargain.”

Caught on the horns of his least favorite dilemma, Turel curled his lips in a grimace of a snarl. Seize one prize, and the other would vanish like smoke... or worse yet, both might! And how like Raziel to vaunt his power and his many more years of training over his younger siblings! The injustice of it all was the twist of a thorn in Turel’s side.

“Better to bargain poorly than to play the common highwayman,” Turel said, in awkward rejoinder. Gathering himself, doing his best to conceal his chagrin, he reached up and closed his fingers around the flat of the blade. Perhaps something could be salvaged from this shambles. “If you aren’t going to use my knife, return it to me. I’ll need something with which to bind that whelp while I beat him.”

Still sucking with a noisy lack of elegance at the prostitute’s throat, Zephon looked up, alarmed.

Raziel considered Turel’s demand without moving. After a few moments he relaxed, and relinquished the blade to Turel’s hand. “As you like,” he said, indifferent to Zephon’s plight. “Gag him, however, if he squalls too loudly. The humans here are not likely to be curious, but with enough noise, *someone* is bound to take exception.” A few screams or cries in the slums were commonplace. The sounds of ongoing torture, less so.

Glancing down at Dumah, he straightened, hauling Kain’s third-born up with him. “On your feet, Dumah.” He easily slapped aside the younger’s vampire’s attempted--and still dazed--blow, and cuffed him about the ear. “You’d do well to finish off your human as well, before Rahab begins to have ideas--or before *I* do.”

Turel let out the breath he’d been holding. Oh, the humiliation of begging Raziel for his own belongings! Gnashing his teeth, he turned his ire upon a far softer target, heavy frame moving fast. Zephon bolted, scrabbling straight up the rough stone wall and into the rafters with a fledgling’s instinctive dexterity. The maneuver, however, only put him some eight feet off the ground -- nearly within Turel’s standing reach, very much within jumping distance. On his second try, Turel seized hold of Zephon’s ankle, and dragged him down to hit the ground in a tangle of limbs. A heavy knee in the center of Zephon’s back kept him from scrabbling away. “You’re bloated as a tick, newborn,” Turel sniffed disdainfully. “And you’ve kept me from my amusement. Seems to me, you owe a measure of blood and recreation both.”

Zephon struggled, thrashed. “An... and what if Dumah goes through your bedroll?” he panted. “I can watch your things, I can....”

Turel leaned back and frowned, eyes narrow in consideration.

Rahab stepped wide around the both of them as he climbed down from his perch, leaving his faint ball of glowing magelight anchored in midair behind -- largely because he hadn’t actually figured out how to move the magical manifestations, yet. He was more compact of frame than his brothers, though still not slight. Rather, his was a swimmer’s build, sleek and strong. “I confess little interest in the dog’s breakfast that Dumah left,” he said, tucking his book beneath his arm as he headed towards the heavy door. “I’m going someplace quieter. How long must we abide here?”

“As long as our sire wills it,” was Raziel’s uninformative reply as he watched an irritable Dumah try to decide what was more important--scuffling with Raziel, or finishing his meal. But at Rahab’s annoyed grimace, he relented. “At least a tenday. Perhaps longer. Stay close; and be mindful of your surroundings.”

Dumah, having finally decided that challenging Raziel was not likely to be nearly as enjoyable as testing Turel, nor garner him anything more than serious injury, finally turned to go hunch protectively over his meal, growling under his breath. The thief--soon to be former, if the bluish cast to his skin was any indication--was hardly any great prize, but it was *his*, and he wasn’t about to share with anyone!

Rahab nodded, accepting his brother’s cautionary warning without bristling. As a very new fledgling, he’d been placed in Raziel’s care more times than he could recall, whilst Kain dealt with Dumah’s excesses. Bridled early, he did not bite too fiercely at the bit now. “A tenday? Then what...” he started with a frown, casting forth his awareness. But Kain was scarcely a shadow at the border of Rahab’s consciousness -- he had to be very distant indeed, and maybe distracted besides. The last time their sire had left them so, he’d returned with... brows drawn together, Rahab glanced towards the youngest among them.

Trapped beneath Turel’s weight, Zephon still panted. The older vampire’s eyes narrowed. “What exactly are you proposing, neonate?” he growled.

Half-crushed as he was, Zephon’s voice was wheezy and breathless. But there was swift calculation in the yellow eyes that flickered between Turel’s face and the rest of the room. “... Dumah already helps h--himself to what is yours. Wh-what will you do when you must leave to hunt, and he remains?” Turel’s gaze flickered involuntarily over to where Raziel stood, and Zephon twisted a little, baring his throat by the barest inch. “....uh--it is obvious that Raziel does not care about--enforcing what is yours. But I-I could watch. Tell you if the others pilfer …”

Across the room, Raziel nodded soberly as Rahab drew the correct conclusion from Kain’s absence. He kept his misgivings to himself, however. Kain would make as many vampires as he willed, and it was not Raziel’s place to protest otherwise. Though Zephon and Dumah, especially, were not likely to be happy with the added competition for both blood and their sire’s favor, capricious as it might be.

Turel cocked his head. As he drew breath to speak, he paused, eyes abruptly narrowed. Zephon smelled of panic, of desperation... that was to be expected. But not that mealy under-current, the one that suggested deliberate untruth. Turel leaned closer, inhaling deep. “Your first mistake,” he rumbled, fisting a sharp-nailed hand in Zephon’s red hair, “is in presuming that Raziel need enforce anything for me. Your second...” he dragged the fledgling’s head back, “is in believing me fool enough to swallow your lies.”

“I don’t --!” Zephon gasped, and then shrieked as his elder brother’s long fangs found his throat.

Rahab arched a brow at the scene before him, glanced to Dumah where he was slurping away the last of his brigand’s life, and then looked back to the eldest of Kain’s spawn. “I don’t want another,” he stated levelly. Several of the brothers he already had weren’t turning out very well, to all appearances. Not that his Sire had made mistakes, of course not. But over the passage of years since their raising, something unfortunate had clearly happened to at least two of his brethren. Hn. Perhaps that was the point. Rahab brightened. “Unless... do you think he means to replace one of the defective ones?”

Through the noise of Zephon’s cries and their own preoccupation, it seemed the others had not heard Rahab’s suggestion--something Raziel was most grateful for. He was in no mood to break up yet *another* battle between his brethren, defective or not! He levelled an quelling stare upon his second-youngest brother, but could not quite hide his sardonic amusement completely.

“I would not be so cavalier about encouraging our sire to cull ‘defective’ vampires, Rahab. For who is to say that Kain’s assessment not might someday find you or I lacking as well, and subject us to the same fate?” He did not *think* Kain was displeased with what he had wrought so far, even with some of his kin’s … eccentricities. But attempting to predict the actions of his sire was a fool’s game. Kain would do as he willed.

Still, he could not quite disagree with Rahab’s assessment. He could only hope that it would change, given enough time. “This is only a temporary confinement,” he added, reaching out to smooth a palm down the back of Rahab’s neck, enjoying the silken feel of the younger vampire’s skin, the fragile line of his spine exposed and vulnerable to his greater strength. “In time Kain shall return, and we shall move again. With any luck, it shall be a place where we need not be quite so forcibly intimate with each other.”

Rahab ducked his head at the correction, and nodded. He’d not thought of that, though he saw now that he should have. Though, to be sure, the intimation that Kain could turn against his firstborn and most-favored was nothing short of absurd. Raziel was the golden child, the treasured one, trusted with all manner of tasks, and the only one among them for whom Kain’s undivided attention was not an invariably agonizing experience.

In a way, Rahab understood Turel’s streak of jealousy very well indeed.

And then Raziel’s hand descended on him, stroking over his nape-length hair and the back of his neck, lingering over the subtle ridge of each vertebrae, and all higher thoughts went skittering away like a handful of dropped coins. Rahab exhaled slowly, savoring this very fundamental chemical acknowledgement -- the yielding sense of shelter and of threat, as if all his worries about the move, his brethren, his books, and Kain’s purpose had receded. It was not so intense as the experience of submitting before his sire, but the sensation was very much a kindred one. Rahab’s eyes, palatinate blue and utterly unlike his siblings’, slid shut as he pressed subtly back into that sedating touch. It was like taking refuge in a tiger’s embrace. “Not all of the intimacies possible here need be forced, brother.”

“There is truth enough in that,” Raziel agreed, pleased at both Rahab’s obedience and his responsiveness. Then a particularly piercing shriek from Zephon--abruptly cut short--reverberated against sensitive ears, and he grimaced slightly. “It seems that remaining here would not be conducive to them, however.” He tilted his head, thinking. “You have never before been to Freeport, correct? It might be wise to learn the byways and other secrets of your new environs.” Kain had warned them not to venture too far; but Raziel was certain he did not mean that they should mew themselves within these walls like frightened rabbits. Even if Raziel attempted to enforce such an edict, the end result was likely to be blood on the walls--and not of the human variety.

Rahab nodded in the affirmative, thoroughly pleased and quite proud, though he endeavored to keep his expression tightly controlled. Left to his own devices, he did not tend to roam far in hunt or exploration, preferred the quiet places, or the deep ones. Such places, of course, were typically poor in prey. Raziel’s excursions, on the other hand, were wide-ranging affairs which often reaped good rewards. They were always, at the least, opportunities to learn more, and with the added inducement of being trusted with secreted places... how could Rahab refuse?

As Rahab hurried to mount the cellar steps, Turel glanced up, caught his eldest brother’s leveled gaze. With the briefest of snarls, he paused to cut a long strip of fabric from the hem of Zephon’s cloak, and roughly gagged the flailing fledgling with it. “Get over here, Dumah, and hold his arms," he ordered brusquely. Wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, just as Zephon had done a minute before, Dumah obeyed eagerly. His quarrel was forgotten and his meal was now a corpse; perhaps he could take his own entertainment once Turel was finished.

The warehouse was dim, even the shafts of morning sunlight that filtered through the holes in the roof were muted and faint. Outside, the day was cloudy enough to begin with, and the pall of burning coal that inevitably hung over a city this size dimmed it further. Bits of loose rubble and trash clinked as Rahab made a book-sized hollow in the debris that choked one corner. Checking the oilskin wrapping one last time, he tucked his text in and covered it over, proof against his brothers’ idle malice, and then returned to meet Raziel as he emerged from the stairwell. Too excited to contain himself entirely, Rahab shifted his weight from one foot to the other, awaiting Raziel’s lead.

Having satisfied himself that Turel would be content to remain within the warehouse, at least for the moment, Raziel mounted the stairs and rejoined Rahab, light-sensitive eyes narrowed against the feeble morning sun. The time of day was not ideal for concealment; daylight might not burn vampires to ash as the humans believed, but it would weaken them. Fledglings were especially susceptible, their strength sapped by the advance of the day. For now they would be able to shrug off the sun’s effects; but Raziel would have to ensure they found shelter during the hours the sun was at its height, for Rahab’s sake if not his own.

Added to that were the difficulties posed in moving unseen, especially since none of Kain’s progeny had yet learned his ability to weave illusions; not even Raziel could yet don a human mask and pass unnoticed amongst his prey. In the lightly populated lands about the manor it had hardly mattered, the surrounding forest and marshland alike providing ample concealment for any roving vampire possessed of a modicum of woodcraft. But to move within the teeming masses of a city such as Freeport--and hunt without being seen--required far more care, and a wholly different set of skills.

Yet for all the disadvantages to venturing out during the day, there were benefits as well. The human population of the city was mired in its own concerns, their own daily routines. For the most part they would be oblivious to the undead predators moving in their midst, so long as said vampires did not draw attention to themselves. It was also a perfect time to watch and learn the patterns of their prey; the movements of the Watch, and the church, the ebb and flow of merchants and sailors. Choosing one’s prey within the bounds of the city was a matter of patience and swift action--and the knowledge of what humans could disappear without causing undue consternation amongst their fellows. All these things, Rahab would need to learn. Given his nature, however, Raziel felt certain his younger brother would be an apt pupil.

“Follow me,” he murmured, and moved down the narrow gap between the two ramshackle warehouses that flanked their own refuge. It was more gutter than alley, in all honesty, piled high with reeking offal. But it led seaward, towards the docks, and Raziel moved with the assurance of memory, picking a meandering course amongst the low roads of Freeport, from gutter to drainpipe to labyrinthine cellars, connected by smugglers’ tunnels and other byways.

Rahab watched carefully his elder’s every action, and copied them as best he was able, drawing the hood of his cloak up to shade his face. He kept his hands loosely fisted as he walked to conceal sharp nails -- though his were scarcely different from a human’s. That much, he knew to do from the times he’d accompanied his brethren to raid caravans. As they navigated the derelict places of the slums, the two vampires nevertheless passed within touching distance of a dozen mortals or more -- sugar addicts, waifs and orphans, the diseased and the infirm. They drew no attention from the trashpickers and drunkards at all, or only brief and huddled glances -- a fact that was nothing short of astounding. Rahab found himself glancing back with incredulity at a cripple who blankly extended his battered cup to the vampires, just as he did towards every other passing figure.

It was almost as if... as if there were so many humans crowded here, that anything humanoid in appearance was assumed to be a member of that race, without thought or careful study. It seemed impossible, suicidally foolish, and yet....

The younger vampire was acutely conscious too of the differences between the way he moved, and Raziel’s confident grace. Rahab darted, moving in the shadows when there were any to be had, pausing to break up his outline, stepping high to avoid shushing his feet through the debris. His sibling *strode*, as if neither concealment nor secrecy mattered one whit. Rahab did his best to follow suit, but even still there were other differences -- in agility and in strength. Once out of the sight of men, Raziel leaped easily atop a broken chest-high line of masonry; Rahab had to dirty his palms in scrambling up, and once he misjudged the depth of a puddle, wetting his boot uncomfortably with the acidic liquid.

Then they turned a corner and the sight made Rahab catch his breath, a reflexive and very unnecessary gasp. The short alley emptied out onto a road. Oh, they’d crossed lanes and byways before, under the eyes of handfuls of mortals even, but this.... the road was paved in cobbles, and was wide enough to turn a coal cart and horses entirely around. Both sides were thick with merchants. The babble was dense in the crisp autumn air, the sound was like a waterfall’s roar; men and women of every description passed so thick before them that Rahab could only just glimpse a dim and beckoning alley, similar to this one, on the other side of the conflugence. So many colors and creatures and sudden movement and, and....

A mortal suddenly appeared near them, a ragged man with a small flat basket, and Rahab startled badly, jerking back with a muted hiss. But the human was paying him little heed. “A pretty, me Lord? A pretty for your catamite? A mantle to keep ‘im warm while ‘ee waits?” the vendor approached Raziel with a gap-toothed smile, too broad and too inviting, flourishing his wares broadly while leaving his right hand unencumbered. The basket held but a few tin bangles, some wilting posies, several lengths of dyed fabric. “Or a packet mebee? A flighty one, ‘ee is, a little something would go far to sweeten ‘im. Best prices in all...”

Raziel bit back a snarl at the human’s insinuating tone. “Nothing of yours is of interest to me,” he snapped. “Begone!” How dare this filthy mayfly creature cast such aspersions upon Kain’s own progeny! Rahab was destined to be the foundation of a new Empire, as were they all--an immortal heir to a power this human could not even imagine. For this man to insinuate that he was little better a pox-ridden whore, a piece of bought flesh; it would be only justice if he allowed Rahab to feast upon the man’s life in recompense!

The human cringed, a practiced cowering that nonetheless allowed him to sidle closer. “No harm intended, me lord, no harm. Jus’ trying to get by, is all …” Bowing low over his basket, he backed off to one side, clearing their path. Yet he still hovered close enough to offend both vampires with his stench, and as Raziel brushed past, a filthy hand darted out, snake-quick, to cut the lacings of the coin-purse at his belt.

The crowd ahead was a very great distraction, but Rahab’s senses were not a human’s. Small, quick movements and subtle sounds were preternaturally bright to him, drew his attention inescapably. Rahab could not miss that furtive theft, the quiet clink of coins. “Hold!” he barked, darting to seize the petty thief. With a cry of his own, the mortal dropped his basket and fled, only to be jerked back by the grip on his ragged shoulder-cape. The man was bigger than Rahab, with several stone and a hand’s-height over him -- closing his ill-gotten coins in his fist, the pickpocket swung at his captor.

Rahab caught the blow in the palm of his hand, as if warding off a child’s assault. The human twisted, desperation lending a surprising amount of strength, trying to run--and Raziel’s hand closed about that wrist, wrenching it up and twisting it painfully backwards, where the thief could not see the black talons that adorned pale fingers.

“A thief as well as a fool, I see,” he snarled.

“Lemme go,” the man panted, twisting wildly as he attempted to pull away from that inexorable grip. “I didn’t mean nuthin’--I swear, me lord, no need for the Watch …” He cried out as the grip on his wrist tightened, forcing him to kneel on the filthy cobbles.

Raziel caught Rahab’s abortive movement out of the corner of his eye as the fledgling stepped forward, suddenly intent upon the pinned prey before him. It was instinct more the true hunger, he knew--Rahab had fed well only a short time previous. _Hold, Rahab,_ Raziel Whispered, concentrating upon the mental touch upon the younger vampire’s mind, forcing his order past the ever-present bloodthirst and burgeoning territorial instincts. _We cannot kill the creature--not here and now. Observe our surroundings. What do you see?_

Rahab recoiled, blinking at the realization that he'd meant to take the unclaimed and proffered mortal right where the creature knelt. He'd not had to tamp down that instinct very often; when hunting on the roads, Kain and his spawn typically subdued small caravans or merchant groups in their entirety, so the fledglings were free to gorge immediately after fighting. “I...” Rahab swallowed, eyes darting to the wide street and all the humans that walked it. But none seemed interested in the disturbance from the dim alley.

Rahab lifted his eyes, scanned the wooden rooftops around them. The buildings here were of marginally better construction than the ones deeper in the slums, some with bars on the windows, or shutters. A rat scurried along one wooden cornice which still bore traces of faded paint, single-mindedly fleeing the vampires below. A child’s avid gaze peered from the corner of one window, an interested and thoroughly entertained spectator. A far more furtive movement behind a bin of refuse drew his attention -- a mouldering pile of fabric and beer fumes shifted, sprouted a hand, which nervously gripped a makeshift dagger, simply a small bar of metal with a sharpened edge. Rahab’s mouth drew into a grim line. The background commotion from the crowd ahead was so great that he still could not hear the second thief’s heartbeat or breath, even knowing that he was there. _We are being watched,_ the younger vampire replied, handling the mental communication with a level of skill impressive for his age, albeit more tenuous than Raziel’s.

 _Yes,_ was the simple reply, the mental touch tinged with approbation. Raziel did not need to look to know what Rahab had found; both experience and the prickling of instinct told him all he needed to know. _Pathetic creatures such as these, weak as they are, rarely run alone. They oft run in packs with others of their own kind, for protection, and also to pull down larger prey than one thief might be able to handle alone. Upon occasion they may also serve a master, a human who has risen to command a larger territory and demand tribute from his lessers. Even so, we could kill this mortal easily, and his comrades, should they be fool enough to come for us. The threat they pose is in the attention such a brawl would bring; in this place, we cannot afford such scrutiny._ In the dark hours of the night, they could have brought down their prey with none the wiser. The thief would have simply been another nameless victim to disappear into the city’s stews. But during the day, the risks were simply too great.

The Whispered communication had taken only moments; and now, Raziel returned his attention to his victim. “A reminder, I think, that you would be wise to choose different prey next time--and to refrain from insulting your betters,” he mused coldly. A moment’s consideration, and then his grip tightened inexorably, crushing with inhuman strength. A sharp twist, and the thief cried out in shock and pain as his wrist folded, bones fracturing under that relentless grip. Satisfied that a lesson had been dealt--though not necessarily to the thief--Raziel released his captive, and kicked him brutally back out into the street. “Now begone, before I regret my mercy!”

The minor commotion caused a few nearby heads to turn; but when it became apparent that it had been caused by a nobleman dealing out his own justice to a back alley thief, interest swiftly turned into indifference, and those observers returned to their own preoccupations.

The sharp-choked cry and the dull splinter of bone raised a shiver up Rahab's spine, a subtle tensing -- such screams heralded weakened prey, meant easy food, and it was no simple matter to resist that allure and keep his mind upon the lessons proffered.

Rahab watched, eyes narrowed, as the pickpocket fled mewling into the crowd. Behind him, the second thief did the same, scuttling back the way they'd come, his terror scenting the air. Neither vampire had set hand upon the second man -- it had merely taken one small, carefully calculated and calibrated act to inspire fear. With guardsmen and merchants, typically several deaths were required before the survivors tried to flee, in Rahab's experience. How had his brother known the difference, to change his tactics and choose a course with such ease? It was nothing short of incredible.

Rahab nodded slowly, ducking to recover the small pouch of coins. He knotted the broken drawcord to repair it, and proffered the purse to his elder. _Is it... is it possible to know whether these ones do serve such a master?_ he asked, thinking of his own Master. There’d been times when one of his kin, Dumah especially, had tangled with a group of mortals too strong for him, and had come crawling back to his brethren wounded and downcast. Kain had been swift, those times, to chastise the unfortunate fledgling... but then had delivered equally swift vengeance upon the humans responsible.

“It is possible, yes,” Raziel answered aloud, now that there were no mortal ears nearby to hear. He was pleased at Rahab’s facility with the vampiric mindspeech that was their birthright, but there was no need for the younger vampire to exhaust himself unnecessarily with its constant use. “It would require time, and careful observation, as well as patience.” At least if they wished to discover the mortal’s identity without cutting a bloody swathe through his underlings. The markers of their ascension into vampiric unlife--the golden-slitted eyes and pallid skin, the fangs, the claw-tipped fingers--also ensured that more subtle interrogations would be impossible to achieve.

Raziel tilted his head, considering his brother. “Do you wish to hunt for the thief’s master, if he indeed exists?” It was an interesting idea, if one that would require a great deal more consideration before they might pursue it. For the moment, however, Raziel was simply interested in understanding what stratagems the fledgling might have in mind, and why.

Rahab gaped. He glanced up before speaking, found that the child at the window had fled as well -- another detail he’d not noticed in the heat of the moment, but should have. “Hunt for? Uhm.” He frowned, trying to make sense of the social order Raziel described. “If there is one... will he not come to us straightaway? When one of us is outmatched, Kain’s attention oft befalls those we failed to slay. So when these sneak thieves come whinging back to their Lord...” but then, was a broken wrist cause enough to seek vengeance against the two vampires? Maybe it was, for humans. How would this master track them, with so many other scents and footprints to confuse the vampires’ trail? Perhaps he and Raziel *should* seek the man out first, in order that their battle might be on more favorable terms....

Hrm. Rahab’s assumptions were inaccurate, but not completely unwarranted, given his limited experience. It was true that if they posed a threat to the local thief-lord, he would undoubtedly seek to hunt down and eliminate that threat. However …

“Think upon the situation for a moment,” Raziel replied evenly. “Should the thief decide to importune his master with tales of his failure, what will he say? That he was seized in the midst of a theft by a merchant, or perhaps a nobleman, or perhaps a guard. And that instead of being summarily killed, or given over to the Watch, the man instead did him injury whilst retrieving his property. Think upon the thief-master’s position. Even if he were inclined to seek vengeance for the crippling of his vassal, how is he to find this unknown person in a city full of humans? And should he, by chance or by skill, find the man responsible, what then? Does he then risk his position and his own wealth, all in order to take vengeance upon a nobleman who wields far more influence than he? All for the sake of one insignificant thief?” He paused, letting Rahab absorb the information.

“Kain kills those that we do not for many reasons, not the least of which is to protect the secret of our existence. We are only five, in a world full of mortals.” Raziel waved a hand at the busy street before them in illustration. “Five, Rahab. Our strength will avail us little if we allow them to swarm us like devourer ants. But the humans--they do not have that concern. To the thief-master, a thief such as this one is only something to be used--and something easily replaced.”

Oh. Rahab was silent a moment, letting those words sink in, turning them over. Most mortals, then, were not at all like Rahab or his brethren -- not even in their regard for one another. What a gift it was, to have been elevated above these disposable multitudes, to be utterly unique in all the world!

And yet, he saw too how precarious this position could be. One betraying move, and all these wretches would fall upon the 'monsters' in their midst. “Then, so long as mortals are numbered like grains of sand, we must become as numerous as the stars,” he mused, following Raziel’s gesture at the passing crowd, and rapidly re-evaluating the wisdom of Kain’s present purpose. “And until then... we must take care always to be clever, watchful, and patient.” He looked to Raziel, trying to decide if he was reaching the right conclusions. If Kain continued to raise fledglings... it would be a long time before they were twenty, let alone twenty thousand. Rahab’s brow furrowed. “Are we to raise fledglings?”

“Perhaps. If Kain wills it.” The thought had occurred to Raziel before; but Kain had shown no signs of teaching any of his progeny the secret of passing on his dark gift, and so he had set the idea aside. Perhaps in time, when they had better proven their worth ….

“Enough--let us move on. I do not intend to spend the entire day moldering within this festering alley,” he told Rahab, discarding his idle musings for more immediate action. Tugging the cloak firmly about his shoulders, he headed out into the busy street, striding with his customary assurance and trusting Rahab to follow. They would not continue on the main thoroughfare long; the possibility of a chance bump or stranger’s hail revealing them was far too great. But if a vampire must walk amongst humans, he had found, it was best to act as if he had every right to do so, moving with the ebb and flow of the people about them.  
It was truly difficult to ignore the temptation posed by the potent scents about them--spices and perfumes, sweat and baked goods, and wafting through it all, the sweet iron tang of living human blood. Raziel kept a watchful eye upon the younger vampire as they made their way towards another, narrower street that led towards the wharves; Rahab was not nearly so foolish or impetuous as Dumah, nor quite as young as Zephon, but he was a fledgling still, and instinct was often a difficult thing to master.

Rahab swallowed hard, eyeing the river of humanity. But Raziel never hesitated, and the younger vampire tugged his own cloak closer and hurried to catch up. It was like plunging into a whirlpool -- such sounds and such sights! Southern traders clothed in layers of gauzy silks, heavy aromatic oils, cages of birds sporting colors Rahab had never seen in nature, the faintly sickening scent of cooking meat and smoldering spices, a matron carrying a yapping terrier... and so much more, all in the first few steps. Desperate, Rahab fixed his attention and his gaze squarely on the center of Raziel’s back, determined to concentrate on nothing but following in his brother’s footsteps.

A warhorse screamed its panic, catching the dry scent of undead. The man holding its corded bridle cursed viciously, dragging the animal’s head back down, though it took his full weight to do so. “Blast your whore of a mother to the seventh generation, boy--” A heavy hand descended to Rahab’s shoulder, even as he belatedly attempted to scramble away. Unthinking, Rahab looked up, his hood falling back, fully exposing his features.

But the horseman merely blinked as if startled, then frowned. “--out of the way!” and propelled Rahab roughly from his path. Trembling with anger and more fright than he cared to admit, Rahab raced to catch up with his brother, drawing his hood up more carefully, and this time making sure to take note of his immediate surroundings as well.

The minor altercation had not escaped Raziel’s attention--but he had chosen to do nothing, gambling that Rahab would escape without notice. He had not been entirely correct in that last assumption; the younger vampire *had* been noticed, but the paleness of his complexion as well as the lapis blue of his eyes were apparently still close enough to human to pass. Still, he made sure to keep the periphery of his sight upon the horseman, alert for any other signs of alarm, until the man and his beast were swallowed up by the crowd.

Finally they reached the side street Raziel had been aiming for; a dark and winding offshoot, overhung with patched and flapping laundry and sandwiched in between two soot-stained shops--a blacksmith and a bootmaker, if their crude signs were to be believed. “You were wise to keep your composure back there,” he said quietly to Rahab as he stepped over a pair of bodies huddled together underneath the corner’s overhang. No doubt either unconscious or dead; either way, it was no concern of his. “You did well.”

Rahab nodded faintly, releasing a slow breath. In years past, he’d most likely have responded to the mortal’s touch and attention with instinctive violence, but now... was this wisdom? Perhaps so. He picked his way over the bodies, bent briefly to examine them, and found they had but one heartbeat between the two. One dead, one alive... Rahab glanced up, found that the crowd of the broad street was still close and visible, and accordingly left the bodies behind to hurry after Raziel.

The swinging laundry overhead cast a network of flickering shadows, a cool and welcoming respite from the morning’s light. The stone and wooden walls were coated with decades of soot, and the slightest brush against them marked clothing or hand. “I have never seen so many humans pressed in together so,” Rahab said, as they turned a corner, and the sound of the marketplace avenue diminished.

“Tis a warren indeed,” Raziel agreed. Their progress was swift, now that were fewer bodies to impede them, and he picked his way over cracked and uneven cobblestones with the assurance of a nocturnal creature. A huddle of rag-pickers stared at the cloaked forms as they passed, but offered no challenge; it was obvious they posed no threat to the humans’ meager gleanings. “Freeport has been a trade and fisher port for centuries, and so the city itself is old--but not all parts of it are equally so. Cities burn, they are taken in war, or abandoned in plague, only to be rebuilt, old stones scavenged for new structures built upon the remnants of those fallen. Human cities such as these oft lie upon a bed of corpses; if one were to dig deep, they would find layers of brick and mortar, and even deeper, the carved stone of ancient shrines and catacombs--all long forgotten by those that live here now.” He glanced sidelong at the younger vampire. “Immortality--and a good memory--can oft turn such things to our benefit.”

They made another turn, and a gap between the tall buildings allowed the wind to whistle through, bringing with it the scent of the sea: salt and rotting seaweed, fish and tar.

Rahab watched their squalid surroundings with more interest, and more appreciation, thinking on the curiosities and knowledge that must be buried beneath their feet. Just as Raziel had implied, here were places where inferno-baked brick was used as the foundation of newer structures; there, spots where the dirt-and-cobble path dipped and rose over strange ridges, half-buried, like old walls. The two vampires passed through a tunnel, an arched thing of marble engraved in places with a language Rahab did not know, an oddly fine strip of architecture yawning derelict in a wasteland of lesser construction. So engrossed was he that Rahab did not think to draw breath for many minutes, and when he did, the smell startled him.

The younger vampire peered about, looking for the source of the salt and humidity. “Are... we near tanneries?” he asked, though even as he spoke, he knew that couldn’t be right. There was little of the uric taint that usually fouled the air about such complexes.

“Tanneries? No,” Raziel said distractedly as he paused at the intersection of two roads and an alley, attempting to remember which of the options before them was the route he remembered from a decade before. Several of the buildings had changed, and the more ephemeral landmarks had vanished entirely. But given the direction they had come, the shoreline should lie to the south and west … ah. The street itself had changed its course, no doubt when the buildings had been rebuilt, either due to disaster or some nobleman’s edict.

Marking the change in his memory, he set off down the new street, following the scent of the sea as it grew stronger. “We approach the docks,” he told Rahab. “There are many opportunities there for a patient hunter; and a secret place that has sheltered Kain and myself in the past.” He only hoped that the smugglers’ caves were not currently in use; the entrance was well-hidden, and had been lost for centuries, but it was not impossible that it could have been rediscovered by some movement of the earth or other mischance.

Another turning, and they were there--the warehouses to either side abruptly giving way to open air and the sea. A small forest of ships, from the great masted schooners bobbing at anchor to the tiny swift boats that ferried news and supplies, all bobbed upon the waves, their timbers creaking and groaning. Gulls hung effortlessly in the air, adding their raucous cries to the din of the docks below: the clangor of steel, the lowing of livestock providing counterpoint to the bellowings of sailors and merchants and fisherfolk. Before them was a dizzying multitude of activity, far greater than the boulevard they had crossed before, all punctuated by shouts of anger and happiness, of deals being struck and a thousand meetings and partings.

And beyond it, the ocean--glittering, vast … and every bit as deadly to a vampire as a sea of fire.

‘Docks,’ to Rahab’s mind, meant those bustling ramps along rivers, where raw skins, timber, and furs were sent downstream in payment for salt and spices and cotton thread, all poled laboriously upriver. This... this was not the same, was like nothing Rahab had imagined. Fish -- not in lines or heaps but rather piled into entire hillsides of gleaming, slippery bodies, were being unloaded and processed. But beyond them, beyond the goats and the geese and the mortals and the outsized rafts... was nothing but blue.

It was as if the summer sky itself had been inverted and splayed out across the ground, though rather than being lit by a single sun, it shone forth with the light of a thousand, thousand stars -- flickering, vanishing, everywhere and forever, world without end. Clouds scudded its distant plane, and there was no hint of a further shore. It did not roll slowly, in the way of a river, but instead seemed to pulse: drawing back, seeming to draw breath, and then pressing forward in foaming battle-lines.

Rahab’s own breath departed him in a quiet sigh, and he stepped out past his brother, vying for a better view. He could smell water, humidity -- but also salts and a thickness reminiscent of blood. _Is it glass? Or... stuff of alchemy?_ he Whispered, reluctant to speak lest the act interrupt the slow sucking tempo of saltwater over rock, ancient and corroding, the cradle of life itself.

Indulging the younger vampire, Raziel replied, _It is all water, Rahab. Brackish stuff that even humans cannot drink, but water nonetheless. Freeport lies upon the edge of the southern ocean, which extends even to the very edges of the world._ Tilting his head, he added a cautionary warning. _Do not let its strangeness cozen you, Rahab. This water is every bit as dangerous to us as any other._ He would not have dared bring Rahab to the wharves, had the vampire been any younger; but now, at least, he hoped that could trust Rahab to heed his warnings.

After allowing his brother a few moments in which to take in the scene before him, Raziel turned, heading towards the northern edge of the wharves. “This way, Rahab.” For the most part, they stayed well ashore, far from those dangerous waves. Their route also took them through the shadows thrown by the massive storehouses and other great buildings that lined the waterfront, which provided them welcome shelter from the strengthening sun. They passed an area dedicated to shipbuilding, humans banging away and scurrying up and down scaffolding; all of it bracketing great curved timbers, an unfinished creation that resembled nothing so much as the skeleton of some great sea-creature.

Ocean... Rahab had read the word before, hadn’t really understood it. How could he have ever imagined something like this? There must be fish in it, and also plants -- if those green and black tangled mats of stuff that resembled rope, bubbles, and scrolls by turns could be called such. But his gaze fell upon things far stranger: smooth-skinned gray fishes with flat tails and blood that smelled something like an otter's and something like a man’s; great bulbous black things with maws half the size of their bodies; long-coiled mounds of whipcord flesh armored with scales like dinner plates; all manner of oddities drawn up from the heart of the sea. Rahab trailed along behind his brother, scarcely watching his step in his entrancement.

The next line of ships they passed were being built or torn down, and Rahab watched workmen balance themselves effortlessly upon scaffolding that quivered with each wave. Other ships were being assembled on shore, in cradles made of yet more timber. A motion caught his eye, and there, in the water... two men splashed their way toward a light, half-finished vessel, newly lowered to the water. As always, watching the swimmers raised in Rahab a kind of blind jealousy, such as men might feel when they contemplate birds in effortless flight.

Ahead, the land grew rockier in a long, jagged spit; the taverns, flophouses, brothels, and warehouses grew smaller and poorer where they clustered on the shore, eventually vanishing altogether where the rock thrust up like a basilisk’s teeth. Rowboats vied for space at battered docks, ferrying cargo to and from great, four-masted schooners which anchored in the bay. Some of the smallboats carried lean men with a desperate gleam in their eyes, who stumbled with rolling gaits as they stepped onto land but nevertheless made their way eagerly up into the city. Returning to their ships, the rowboats carried tight-packed clusters of men, women, and children -- some dressed as middle merchants, some as paupers, but all weighted down with trunks and haversacks.

The activity offered a wealth of possibilities for two vampires, even in daylight. Even a fledgling, were he clever and careful enough, could snatch a sailor or some other wharf-rat in order to sate his hunger. And given the press gangs, thievery, and other dangers that lurked for sailors eager to spend their brief liberty upon shore in drunken debauchery, it was almost expected for a few men to disappear from time to time--whether of their own volition or otherwise.

Ducking behind a low, ramshackle building adorned with nets and strange, hooked fishing implements, Raziel watched the ebb and flow of activity, marking the ships that seemed to be readying for departure, and those that seemed newly arrived. There was one, in particular--an unprepossessing bark, its timbers laden with barnacles and green slime, its sails ragged and worn. Its crew had wasted no time in escaping to shore, but there were a few sailors that had remained--and now they were engaging in a quiet bit of enterprise, hauling small crates to shore with a furtive air and secreting them in a rocky hollow some distance from even the shabbiest of piers.

Raziel squinted into the sky, and grimaced. It would soon be sun-high; not an ideal proposition for stalking human prey. Still … he glanced at Rahab. “What do you think? Shall we do a bit of hunting?” Raziel was still well-fed from his earlier repast; but a fledgling’s hunger was endless, as he well knew.

“Wha --” Rahab had followed his brother closely, but without a great deal of attention. His eyes had begun to tear from the brightness, from the sunlight reflected across the water -- so much water! -- but with every step, there were half a hundred new things to look upon out across the bay. But that last word captured his focus most neatly. Rahab blinked pinkish fluid from his eyes. “Hunting?”

The younger vampire stepped back into the shadows alongside Raziel, watching as a reeling man stumbled by, his weight draped between a pair of common tarts. “Yes,” he said definitively, unaware that Raziel’s question had been a rhetorical one. This alley, more alcove than pathway, dead-ended against a towering ridge of pitted black rock. The overhanging patchwork roof of the conjoined assembly of shacks provided a fair degree of shade. But not, he thought, enough to conceal any noisy taking of prey. On the other hand, perhaps he was wrong. Rahab leaned out from their concealment, glanced over their surroundings. “Can we feed here?” he asked, noticing a flurry of activity, apparently relating to the approach of one of the dockmaster’s attendants, to judge by the book he carried and the guards around him. When Rahab looked back to the humans nearest, something was missing. It took a moment for him to determine what -- a small stack of crates piled along the jagged shore, there but moments before, had vanished. But to where? There was nothing for a quarter-furlong, save for more steep slopes of that dark, pocked stone... and the hypnotic pulse of water, slow as a giant’s heartbeat.

“Not here, no,” Raziel said, watching the official’s approach. He had noticed the vanished crates as well--and a dark, anticipatory smile ghosted over his lips. “This way ….”


	2. Chapter 2

Stepping backwards, Raziel moved deeper into the shadows, towards where the rough-hewn stone walls of the building butted up against the jagged cliffs. The stone was black, grainy to touch and weathered down to a sheer face that offered few handholds, assuming that they were desperate enough to try to climb. But it was not the sky to which Raziel was looking. Instead he picked through the jumble of detritus, muttering a little as he poked through hopelessly tangled netting, seaweed, and other trash thrown up by the sea, all layered over a jumble of piled boulders.

“...ah. Here it is,” he murmured to Rahab in satisfaction. Setting pale fingers underneath a particular boulder, he crouched, lifted--and rolled it aside to reveal a hollow bored through the stone, down into the dark. “The sand warrens,” Raziel said by way of explanation, setting back upon his heels as he scented the air. “Underneath these cliffs are tunnels worn away by the sea. They are used by smugglers, at times--though none know of *this* particular entrance.”

Rahab trailed behind, watching with avid intent his elder’s search. Even still, he could not spot the concealed entrance, until Raziel worked his fingers beneath the cover stone and shifted it away. The rock was heavy, perhaps even beyond Rahab’s strength, crushing discarded bones and sea-wrack bulbs alike beneath its weight. A trickle of loosened sand drifted down into the revealed borehole. Little wider than a man’s shoulders, the tunnel snaked into the stone at a slightly-downward angle, and beyond the first few feet it was impossible to make out any details -- nothing but black void against black pitted stone.

Tight and labyrinthine passages, steeped in darkness, from which no screams could escape... young though he was, Rahab could see for himself the eminent suitability of this place. Fascinating too that the sea, as well as harboring deep secrets, could carve tunnels! Controlling his eagerness as best he could, Rahab cast one last look back out into the street. Finding no observers, he took the point, entering headfirst, that claws and fangs might be brought more swiftly to bear, if needed.

Behind him, there was a muted scraping of Raziel’s boots and he too climbed in, then the heavy slide of the cover stone, and then darkness descended, utter and enveloping, a Stygian cradle that soothed the senses. The spread of Rahab’s palms on the worn floor, the echo of quiet sounds, told him all he needed to know -- slope and pitch, the rough places ahead, the shape of the chamber around him. Small creatures of the sand skittered before him, their simple nervous systems sensing power in the air, and urging them flee. A few more lengths, and Rahab’s fingertips met a lip of stone, beyond which was nothing at all, and the young vampire risked summoning the smallest of lights, a pale greenish glow that would be near unnoticeable to even night-adapted human eyes. Even if spotted, the patch on the wall of the tunnel might be mistaken for some natural phosphorescence of lichen.

To Rahab, the illumination lit the whole of the chamber quite well. The crawl-space from which he emerged was some eight feet off the floor, partially concealed by a fin of stone. As if a great worm had gnawed through the rock, an unnaturally smooth tube-like cavern extended left and right, stretching far beyond the reach of the light. Here, some chance of geology had broadened that passage, making a sand-bottomed cove of sorts. Scraps of lumber and rope were piled haphazardly on the ground. Crystals of salt, some thick as a man’s wrist, clustered on exposed surfaces. Distant dripping, measured and regular as the action of waves, echoed.

Rahab climbed to the sand, clearing the way for Raziel. He lifted his head, tasting the scents of this place: warped rock and old heat, salt-rotted wood and leather, rust, the burning pitch of torches... and everywhere, water.

Raziel soon followed suit, dropping lithely to the sandy floor of the cove. What would have been pitch black to human eyes was as clear as twilight to a vampire’s gaze, aided by Rahab’s magelight. Tiny scurrying sea-creatures skittered away from the sudden intrusion into their lightless world, burrowing deep into the sand or scrabbling away over rock as their natures dictated.

 _This way,_ Raziel Whispered, turning right, confidently choosing one of the rocky passages, even though there seemed little to distinguish one from the other. _Silence is our ally in this place. Sound echoes oddly within these caverns, and in places where even a human might be able to hear._ Suiting action to words, he moved deeper into the dark with a loose-limbed and stealthy steps, setting his feet precisely upon the uneven stone. As they went deeper, the tunnel gradually grew even more damp, the stone about them redolent of the sea and the scent of the deep earth. _We are not the only creatures to use these warrens--no doubt the smugglers we saw earlier have found themselves a bolthole closer to the light. But none but we enter this way--humans are afraid to come this deep. And for good reason …_ He stopped short, a hand hard upon Rahab’s arm as he nodded at a deeper shadow than the rest. A flicker of magelight was all that it took to reveal a fathomless inky pit, dropping away from where they stood with shocking abruptness. Haven the sand warrens might well be, but they were not without their dangers.

Rahab sucked in a breath sharply as a shallow depression, a mere shadow amongst shadows, was revealed to be far, far deeper. Wide enough to swallow three men, the edges worn smooth by the passage of water and eons, the hollow snaked its way beyond any reach of light or vision. Rahab had not yet developed the ability to modulate his descent in freefall, but even if he had, the skill might do him little good were he swallowed by this void... for distantly, distantly... the hollow lap and pulse of waves echoed up through the darkness.

Rahab withdrew slowly from his precarious footing, edged with his elder around the wider rim, ducking the salt-frosted spears of mineral stone that depended from the uneven ceiling. He paused on the other side, looked back -- the fading patches of magelight he’d left periodically on the stone walls were like breadcrumbs, trailing behind, marking the way with islands in the blackness. _I see,_ he replied, awed and tantalized by turns. So many traps into which the unwary might be led, so many nooks and hidden places....

Alert, he followed Raziel over a jumble of fallen stone, keenly aware of each quiet click of rubble upon rubble under his feet. Raziel bore right at the next intersection, and the passage twisted sharply, spooling its way through several turns, opening at last into a chamber that glittered like a treasurehouse, choked with pillars of cloudy salt as tall as a man, a thousand crystalline points bristling like swords, catching and refracting whatever glimmer of light fell upon them. Deep brackish pools, severed from their parent ocean for centuries, harbored life stranger than any Rahab had yet seen -- scuttling and gauze-finned things, blind and pale. But his elder picked his way confidently through them all, and Rahab followed, much though he wished to hesitate at the sight of each new wonder. Another turn, and the scent of torches and tar and the sea grew stronger; the salt on the walls was muddied with flecks of char.

Raziel slowed, though not because of any uncertainty as to their location. It had been decades since he’d last visited this place, but stone changed but slowly, not as swiftly or unexpectedly as human habitations did. What had slowed his approach, in fact, was the distant sound of voices in the dark. Human voices, hushed yet still echoing oddly off water and stone. Moving with the stealthy care of a predator, he moved along one wall of the tunnel, using the deepest of the shadows to cloak his approach as the darkness fell back before the fitful light of torches that illumined the walls of the chamber before them.

“--I tol’ ya, Erik, we shoulda waited. Iffn we’d waited, we coulda gone ashore, had us some grog, mebbe even a woman. But you had ta move the damned crates, and now we’re stuck here! Can’t do nuthin but sit in th’ cold and damp, ‘til the poxy dock inspector takes himself off.”

“Aw, shut it,” snarled another voice, lower and rougher than the first. “You’ve never stopped at one drink in yer entire pox-ridden life, Squint. Do you *want* the Captain to catch us? That would be somethin’, awright--no cargo, no coin, and a flogging to boot.”

“You weren’t inna hurry cause of the Captain. You just were getting antsy, an’ now we’re paying for it,” the first voice grumbled. A few muttered imprecations were lost in the echoing stone, even as Raziel slid forward, towards a massive boulder, cleft nearly in twain, that separated the tunnel from the cavern beyond. From such a vantage point, both he and Rahab could see the hapless smugglers; one sitting, the other standing, pacing to and fro upon the pebbled cavern floor. Both were clad in the rough garb of sailors, stained and roughly woven, adorned with a multitude of patches, and had the swarthy skin and tight-curled hair characteristic of the southern lands, the older man’s face seamed with scars and adorned with a luxuriant beard. Focused as they were upon the dim light of the cave’s entrance, and blinded further by the torchlight, the arrival of Raziel and Rahab did not attract any outcry from either of the waiting smugglers. The vampires were, in effect, invisible--at least for the moment.

After the stygian caverns, the ragged and narrow gape of sunlight was abrupt as a wound. The entrance was a gouge, accessed by a rude rampway of planks and trash, and just wide enough for a single man to squeeze through. While the opening was above the line of high tide, seawater surely entered occasionally, for there were shallow puddles in depressions in the stone, and further back, deeper pools. The smugglers had dragged their goods further up, to dryer venues, and were backlit quite nicely by the noonday light. Even still, the glare was not enough for their weak eyes; both men bore rag-wrapped torches. Squint swung his back and forth as he paced, liking the hiss as it flared. "We done this, wot, six times now? Everyone gets his cut, nuthin goes wrong, you sed it. How many times you sed it? Too many, that's how. And now sumthin goes wrong, all sudden like. So's I can't get my grog, mebbe not today at all. I don't like it."

"The thing I don't like none," snarled the second sailor, "is your flapping tongue, Squint. 'An he hears you caterwauling in here like a whore with the split-rot, someone might take it upon hisself to come find out why." His torch was wedged beside him, between two stones, leaving his hands free for the saber sheathed at his belt. He sat atop a pair of the small, stacked crates they were moving -- the boxes were solidly built, and sealed along each slat with wax, proof against the slow seep of dampness.

Squint sneered, but lowered his voice. He wore only a long dagger, the kind useful about a ship for eating or cutting or prying, but even still, he reached to touch its hilt for reassurance. "Ain't nobody gonna hear us here," he said, torch swishing in agitation. "An iffin he does, he'll be feeding the fishes."

In the approach, focused upon his prey -- and singled out like this, they *were* prey, even as similar mortals in a crowd had not been -- Rahab was nearly as stealthy as his elder, his grace instinctive. At Raziel's silent gesture, Rahab maintained his course close to the wall while his elder stepped out, circling.

While the elder sailor was likely to put up more of a struggle, Raziel decided the younger was likely to be more dangerous--or at the very least, more likely to use the torch he had in hand against any hapless fledgling vampires. Rahab had little to fear from a sword or dagger, barring an unlucky impalement--but fire was far more deadly, and a fledgling’s instinct to flee when confronted by it could be difficult to overcome.

“I do not think it will be the fishes that will be feasting this day,” Raziel said with dark humor, drawing both humans’ eyes to him even as he stepped into the torchlight. For the barest instant, he stood revealed--a creature as ghost-pale as any cave-fish, inhuman golden eyes glittering in the torchlight. The smugglers gawked, caught by surprise, the elder half-rising from his seat--and then Raziel *moved*, closing the distance between them with preternatural speed.

“Whut--?” Confronted by a demon-creature out of the dark, Squint managed only a single abortive cry before it was upon him. Black-clawed fingers closed upon the torch in his hand, twisting it away with shocking ease and tossing it into a nearby tide-pool. Shadows closed in as he scrambled to free himself, fingers fumbling upon the hilt of his dagger. “Erik! Help me!” His cry went unanswered as steely fingers dug into his flesh, claws closing about his throat.

Rahab was undistracted by his brother's theatrics, which most usefully and thoroughly drew  
the mortals' startled attention. Time seemed to flow through syrup, each moment stretching, each sensation heightening. He could hear both mortals' heartbeats, the bellows rush of their angry breaths, could scent the sudden salt tang of sweat. The hunt was a pleasure, a drug, an imperative. Each step was silent, every muscle taut with coiled violence. Rahab watched his prey twist, grasping for the hilt of his blade and exposing the length of his flank, weight shifting as the man rose...

Rahab's leap caught the mortal off-balance, a fist staving in the pirate's unarmored ribs like twigs, the force of the spring tumbling them both, grappling, to the sand. Rahab went for the man's throat, confident that shock and pain would make the man weak -- and snarled furiously as the mortal slammed an elbow into his jaw, snapping his head back in a way that might have broken his spine, were his bones still mortal-fragile.

Enraged, Rahab tightened his grip on the bigger man's arm, wrenching, and felt the joint of the shoulder dislocate. The satisfaction of that click-tearing sensation, the sailor's ragged cry, was short-lived as the man twisted under him. A stunning point of fire blossomed at Rahab's temple, the glancing impact of a piece of coral stone, and then they were somehow reversed, he flipped to his back, the mortal clubbing down, one-handed, with the hunk of jagged rock.

"Erik! Err--kkk!" Squint's desperate cries were cut off, along with his air. Gagging, he flailed ineffectively for a moment, his nails scrabbling against hands so strong they felt sculpted of cold marble. He kicked out frantically -- in vain, as he was lifted from the ground by that terrible grip at his throat, his assailant’s strength inhuman. One hand clawing at that steely arm, Squint tried again for the dagger at his belt. His fingers jerked numbly at the hilt -- and then the entire sheath came loose, the blade not yet clear of it. Frightened beyond thought, Squint slashed at his attacker's eyes with the leather-encased blade.

Raziel jerked his head back as the rough leather of the scabbard scraped across his cheek and brow, snarling in annoyance. His prey’s flailings could do nothing to injure him--but as that dagger finished its arc, the scabbard slipped free of the curved blade. His face mottled as he fought frantically for air, the human stabbed blindly downward, desperate to free himself. The strike was ill-aimed, yet still scored pale flesh, bloodscent intermingled with terror perfuming the air.

Growling under his breath, Raziel caught the man’s wrist before he could stab downward yet again, twisting brutally. Bone snapped under his grip, and his prey gave a despairing, breathy cry as the dagger dropped from his spasming fingers. Raziel took a moment to eye Rahab, who still struggled with his own chosen prey--but chose not to intervene. The younger vampire was in no mortal danger, and subduing such a skilled brawler without assistance was a useful lesson indeed. Instead he bent his head, savoring the frantic thump of the sailor’s heart and the hot bloodsmell that pumped beneath the begrimed skin--then bit down, cutting deep as he went for the kill.

The younger of the pirates continued to struggle for a moment longer, but asphyxiation left him on the verge of consciousness. The pain of the sudden tearing bite was sharp counterpoint to his broken wrist, but after a few swallows, both began to recede, attenuating. Gradually he went lax, unresisting.

Rahab's own prey landed two more clubbing blows before he managed to strike one of his own, rocking Erik back, stunning him a moment. The vampire lunged up with a vicious snarl, stronger than the mortal despite his size. One palm shoving the sailor's head back, Rahab locked fangs in the exposed throat, wrenching a gory mouthful free. Blood splashed across his face and chest before he could shove the man over and seal his mouth over the gaping wound.

Salt, and the richness of health and sun, the complexity and mouthfeel of the abundant seafood the man consumed, slightly sweet and enthrallingly salty... lacking in some respects, perhaps, but a delicious alternative to the vitae of slum-dwellers. Rahab gulped rapidly, knowing the man would bleed out far too fast, relishing every swallow. His own skin itched intensely as his scrapes closed over with visible speed, the cartilage in his nose clicking audibly as tiny muscles began to draw it back into proper place.

Raziel drank deep, relishing the pumping life of the blood as it spread over his tongue, burning down his throat to coil in his stomach. There was no way to preserve any of it for later--he had no way of transporting his prey back to the slums where the rest of his brethren waited without attracting notice, and leaving either of the sailors alive, even bound, was a risk he was not prepared to take. The man’s struggles slacked, weakening as that frantic heartbeat slowed--until finally he hung limp, his skin ashen. Satiated, Raziel lifted his head, letting the sailor’s cooling body drop to the cavern floor, smearing the back of one pale hand across bloodstained lips. Rahab had subdued his chosen prey, he noted with satisfaction, though the kill was more messy than he would have liked. Cleaning up his younger brother enough to make their way through busy daylight streets would be challenging, to say the least.

Few blisses were so intense as this, as gulping freely of heartsblood, like drinking from the very pulse of the world, drawing Rahab into a red animal space that felt outside himself, outside time or thought. But like all unalloyed pleasures it was over far too quickly, the flow easing to a seep, to a trickle. Rahab lifted his head from the wound, leaned back to survey his kill -- perhaps there was another artery he could open -- and surprised himself by sneezing. Rather messily, given the extent to which his face was covered in gore. He wrinkled his nose, trying to determine if it was still broken. Difficult to be sure, but he did catch sight of his elder brother’s leveled gaze.

Hissing brief, greedy anger, Rahab bent to cover his prey from view, ducking to lick and worry at the wound he’d carved.

Raziel suppressed a sigh and went to sit upon the sandy cave floor, after taking care of a minor bit of housekeeping--dragging the remains of his meal into the deeper shadows, out of the sight of any casual observer. Precocious Rahab might be for a fledgling, but a fledgling he still was. Raziel did not feel inclined to interrupt the younger vampire’s feeding before Rahab had been satisfied; not when there was no need to either enforce his brother’s obedience or wrest his own share of the kill away from those greedy fingers. No, better to let Rahab savor his meal in peace; such chances were vanishingly rare, especially when Rahab had his other brothers to contend with. Once he was done, they would let the sea take both bodies; with the right currents, the monsters of the deep would devour the remains far more thoroughly than a vampire ever could.

It took several inelegant minutes before Rahab came slowly to the conclusion that there was nothing more to be gained from his kill. He sat up at last, vaguely disappointed but pleasantly sated. There was still blood on his lips, and he licked them, tasting it. The fluid was drying, and beginning to lose its vital essence, but most agreeable nevertheless. Rahab swabbed his palm over his face, lapping the red from his fingers, and thereby making of his visage an even more disturbing horror-mask of gore and long white fangs and angel-blue eyes, slitted in enjoyment.

Ineffectual self-grooming complete, Rahab cocked his head a little, idly eyeing the sailor whom Raziel had dispatched. He knew better, by now, than to look upon Raziel as potential prey -- that lesson had been thoroughly ingrained, starting just days after his resurrection.

Catching that look, Raziel growled, the warning rumbling from the back of his throat. Precocious Rahab might be, but Raziel’s patience with his brother did not extend to allowing him to forget his manners! Only the rawest fledglings were allowed to gnaw upon the corpses of others’ prey like scavengers. Such behavior was all one could expect of a new-made vampire--but Rahab was now several years past his resurrection, and could no longer claim a newborn’s incapacity for thought.

“We were fortunate,” Raziel remarked, the sound of his voice echoing oddly off the stone around them. “Smugglers do not always use these caverns. Their existence is oft forgot for years or decades, before some human stumbles upon an entrance and discovers them anew.” He tilted his head, regarding Rahab’s blood-spattered state. “And as you have learned, sailors are not nearly so easy to subdue as soft-bellied merchants ….”

Rahab blinked, frowned, the haze of fight and feeding clearing from his eyes. He looked to his own hand and, finding it covered in gore, tsked in pique and tried to wipe his palm clean on the sand -- only to discover that much of his arm and shirt and face were similarly coated. “Not nearly so easy,” Rahab admitted with dismay -- he’d fought trained humans before of course, though mainly guardsmen already crippled or disarmed by his elder brothers -- and a certain degree of shame as he surveyed his state. How were they to leave the caverns like this, with Rahab anointed liberally in the evidence of his own excesses? It was well he’d not made such a error in front of his Sire -- Kain’s patience and his tolerance for such youthful exuberances was vanishingly thin.

Fastidiously, Rahab gripped his sailor by the wrist and dragged the corpse over to lay neatly beside Raziel’s kill. Then he circled to where Erik’s torch still smoked and guttered, wedged firmly between two boulders. Crouching, flinching a little, Rahab reached out to grip the thing carefully as far from the lit end as possible, and doused the offensive flame in the nearest water. That accomplished, the only light came from the thin crack up the wall, a muted blue light reflected from all the many pools and puddles. In that cool glow, Rahab selected a clean space on the dry sand. “How soon need we depart?” he asked quietly, drawing his tunic up over his head and toeing off his sandals. His torso was stippled with short lines of blood -- his own, from scrapes he’d received during the course of his fight. The minor wounds were now vanished, leaving only a little vitae to mark the struggle.

Raziel tilted his head, considering. “We have some time--the sun is yet high.” His time-sense was imperfectly accurate, especially mewed underground like this; but he still could feel the sun’s progress in his bones, his undead flesh yearning for the cool safety of twilight. Their painstaking progress through the caverns had taken some time, but the subsequent ambush and meal had not been lengthy. They could afford to linger.

Ripping an unstained portion of cloth from one of the corpses, he pushed to his feet and proffered it to Rahab. “Here--this may help.” Then he turned his attention to the crates that the humans had so diligently guarded, crouching next to the nearest to consider it. Made of rough-hewn wood and sealed with wax, there was little upon the surface to indicate what might lie inside. The faded stampings of a foreign port adorned its surface to declare its origin, but even those might have been faked in order to allow these crates to go unremarked amongst more ordinary cargo.

Raziel sniffed experimentally at the wood, but found it scented only the sea and the reek of months spent in the dank belly of a sailing ship. Finally curiosity got the better of caution; levering sharp-nailed fingers into one corner, Raziel pulled the lid upward, metal studs shrieking in protest, and peered within. He had expected spices, or perhaps some other exotic goods heavily taxed--at most, perhaps a windfall of the addictive white-powdered ‘sugar’, banned by Freeport authorities and thus worth its weight in gold.

Instead, the crate was full of … vials? Frowning, Raziel reached in, plucking one out to scrutinize it more closely. The vials were full of liquids in a rainbow of gem-like hues--sapphire-blue, dark crimson, some even a virulent and unnatural green that glowed slightly in the darkness. The bottles themselves were embossed with strange symbols he did not recognize, and tightly sealed. Some were even adorned with strange charms made of beads and bone, or their caps threaded through with gold and silver wire in elaborate interlocking shapes. None seemed to be warded against handling, yet Raziel could feel the magic thrumming within those bottles; some inimical and prickling against his skin, others more alluring, as if they welcomed his touch, singing silently of blood and darkness.

Rahab joined him beside the crates. Most activities were of far greater interest than scrubbing soiled clothing in the sand of course, but the treasures his brother had found were nothing short of fascinating. He leaned over to peer at the little vials -- most were no longer than a finger, and some not even that wide. Each was nested in one of the holes of an odd, many-pocketed wicker frame, of which there were three stacked in each small crate, and the whole of the assembly was padded in strips of soft fur. A great deal of care and caution had gone into packing the little glass baubles. Even still, one had broken, Rahab saw when his elder lifted the topmost frame out; one pocket contained only broken glass, and the fur there was stained a rusty shade. Raziel drew another wax-sealed vial from its sleeve and this one shed its own light, a pale violet glow that seemed to dance and twist as the potion was moved, casting a strange silvery pattern of shadows and light over Rahab’s naked skin.

It made his fingers itch to touch, to explore, to seek and find out... and curiosity was a temptation to which Rahab could offer naught but token resistance. He knew better, however, than to grab blindly at the whole vials -- they were his elder’s find, and therefore his elder’s property, unless Rahab wished to challenge Raziel for them. And that... that would be a very poor idea indeed. Nearly shivering with excitement, Rahab dipped two fingers into the wicker well, and drew out one of the little pieces of broken glass, which he judged of no interest to his brother. His hand tingled where the dry, rust-colored stuff touched his skin. “What... what are they?” Rahab asked, sniffing his prize, trying to place the powdery iron scent. Whatever it was, it was certainly unlike the next one which Raziel drew from its sleeve -- that one was white as milk, and some trick of the glass seemed to give it a faint halo in gold that make Rahab want to flinch.

“If I were to guess,” Raziel said slowly, scrutinizing the glowing-gold vial held gingerly between thumb and forefinger, as if it might bite, “I would say these are alchemical potions, though what their purposes might be, I could not tell you.” Setting down the vial full of white liquid, he plucked another from its fur-lined nest. This one was a dark crimson, vibrant as heart’s blood, encased in a vial topped with dark metal scrolled into arcane runes. “Except for this … I have seen Kain use these, upon occasion.” They were rare, moreso now than ever, and Raziel had only ever seen his Sire use them in moments of direst need. “It is a blood glyph--a vial of human blood, preserved and made more potent by ancient magic. Even this tiny amount could heal wounds, or provide sustenance to a hungry vampire. I have heard that human physicians may even use them in their surgeries, or to replace what has been lost during a bloodletting.” A criminal waste, in his opinion, that such rare and precious items were destined to be wasted upon inbred human nobles or overfed merchants, but such was the way of the world in which they lived.

Pale fingers curling protectively about the vial, Raziel glanced at Rahab. “This is indeed a prize. I know not what other magics might be contained within these bottles, but there are many that might be of use--and all would fetch a high price from any sorcerer or alchemist looking to enhance his spell-workings. We will need to hide these--conceal them deep within the caverns where none but we can find them.” The two would-be smugglers might have had confederates, unlikely as that might seem, and Raziel was not about to leave such precious goods where any wharfside scavenger might stumble upon them. They would not be able to move the crates unnoticed until nightfall; until then, they would need to hide them well.

Rahab exhaled in disappointment, but nodded, laying down the broken bit of glass. "As you say, brother." If only he could take the artifacts for himself, could secret them away and study them and discover their properties! The very thought raised a shiver up his spine, an obsessive's compulsive yearning. Each vial that Raziel held up in turn for examination seemed to sing a different siren tone, a hum just beyond the borders of hearing.

For a moment, Rahab contemplated simply taking the objects of his desire, perhaps in a moment of his elder's inattention. But the vials would clink in his beltpouch, and even if he could wrap them well enough, what if Raziel wished to inventory his find?

It was a kind of torment to watch Raziel handle the artifacts. "But... shall we not take some with us? Now? Today?" Rahab asked at last, looking to his brother. In the pale glow of another of the little vials, a stain across the collar of Raziel's dark tunic stood out, and Rahab frowned. There was another scent on the air, Rahab belatedly realized. "...did you take injury?" he asked.

“Mm? It is merely a scratch, nothing more,” Raziel replied, dismissing the injury that still remained red and livid--if sealed over--upon his pale skin. He weighed a vial in his hand, considering it--then slanted a knowing glance at the younger vampire. Rahab’s motives were transparent to anyone familiar with a fledgling’s acquisitive greed, after all; and Raziel, especially, knew his brother well.

“Very well--we shall take a few,” he finally conceded after some consideration. “A few blood glyphs may well be needed, and perhaps two or three others for further examination. We shall stay away from those that stink of holy magic, however.” It would be folly indeed to allow such dangerous magic within reach of a fledgling vampire’s greedy fingers! He slanted a warning glance at Rahab. “Only a few, Rahab. And I would suggest discretion.” Only Turel was likely to be foolish enough to try and challenge his elder brother for such prizes; but Rahab was unlikely to be afforded the same consideration by his brethren.

Rahab ducked his head, far too delighted to be properly embarrassed at his evident transparency. The relics would be his! Only a few, to be sure, but that term could be stretched quite far in Rahab's opinion. And the things he would do with them... perhaps he could apply a drop of each vial to a stone or insect or a little blood, and thereby learn something of the artifact's properties. When he again had access to an almebic, such as the one he'd assembled at the manor house, then he could learn even more. For the first time, Rahab dared draw the tip of a finger lightly -- ever so lightly! -- over the intricate caps of a line of little bottles, reveling in the feel of the different magics playing over his skin. He’d choose... he’d... which ones would he pick?

Rahab withdrew his hand, twisted his fingers in the scrap of flannel torn from the sailor's shirt, knotting and unknotting it anxiously. Later, he would decide later -- but just right now... there was something else he wanted. Rahab was well and fully aware of the indulgence his sibling had granted already, of course. Dare he make a further request, and a forward one? But just as the blood on his hands was drying and flaking away, so too was the vitae on Raziel's skin drying, losing its potent vitality, seeping into the weave of Raziel's tunic, wasted. "Then, before we secret the crates, brother... may I clean the wound?"

Putting the blood glyph carefully back within its furred compartment, Raziel glanced over at Rahab, annoyance warring with a certain wry amusement. “Two humans to dine on this day, and you still desire more?” Rahab’s appetite, it seemed, was insatiable. Still--the sun was yet high. They had time before they would be able to return safely, and there were none of the others about to squabble and snarl at their elder brother’s obvious favoritism.

“Very well,” he finally said, rising to seat himself upon another of the crates and beckoning his brother forward. “However, I expect you to mind your manners, Rahab. If I feel fangs in my hide, I will not be well-pleased.” Left unspoken was that Raziel’s displeasure was likely to be both swift and unpleasant, for if his temper was not quite so capricious as that of their Sire, he had still learned what he knew of discipline at Kain’s hand.

Rahab grinned slyly, hurriedly gathering his hair back in a tie. It was bloodied, and his elder would little appreciate being painted with dead vitae in the course of Rahab’s greed. “I did not finish the first,” he offered by way of explanation, scrubbing his face vigorously with the flannel, “and the second did spill somewhat, after all.” Which was all true as far as it went. But even still, Rahab was well-fed, and would remain so for a day or more. No, the prize here was the prospect of tasting *Raziel*, an indulgence which Rahab valued every bit as highly as the opportunity to drink of his Sire.

Kain’s blood was overwhelming in its potency, was like being swept under, leaving a fledgling helpless with the rapture. Raziel’s was strong, too... but not so much as to obscure the complexities, the currents of power, the layers of taste and sensation and energy. As neatened as he could make himself in a few seconds, Rahab approached as his elder’s gesture, sinking to his knees in careful respect. Steadying one mostly-clean hand on Raziel’s thigh, he reached to the neckline of his elder’s tunic.

Rahab’s clever fingers made quick work of the buttons that opened to his brother’s breastbone, and Rahab peeled the wet fabric back from the injury with care. The dagger had stabbed straight down just above Raziel’s collarbone, slicing the thick muscle there; the wound probably had been nearly a finger in depth. Had the blade pierced a little deeper, it would surely have punctured larger arteries or even one of Raziel’s lungs -- which was a decidedly uncomfortable injury indeed. As it was, the stab had bled freely before closing. The scent was intoxicating.

Rahab insinuated himself a little closer. “My thanks, Raziel,” he murmured, and laid his lips upon the wound, carefully, fangs well-covered.

Raziel did not move as those cool lips touched his skin, staying patiently still under Rahab’s ministrations. After a few moments, one hand lifted, black-taloned fingers curling over the join of neck and shoulder in a caress that held both warning and approbation. Suckling carefully at inflamed flesh, the touch of Rahab’s pale lips and eager tongue was a subtle benediction, each slow lick sparking a frisson of pleasure over sensitized skin. It was a minor pleasure, to be sure; a precursor, perhaps, to other, more potent diversions. But in this chill and exposed space, with water lapping far too close for any vampire’s comfort, such minor attentions were all Raziel could afford to allow.

The wound had bled well before it had closed, which afforded Rahab more sustenance that he might otherwise have found. Raziel could hardly cavil at the opportunity to be so thoroughly cleansed by his brother’s devotions; however, always at the back of his mind was the thought of the others, left to their own devices. He had commanded them to remain hidden, yet the longer he was gone, the more opportunity there might be for some mishap or fit of temper. Zephon, especially, needed little excuse to stray, and Dumah was easily provoked into foolishness.

Indulging Rahab for these few moments was harmless enough, but Kain had left all his brethren in his care; and Raziel did not wish to fail in that duty.

Rahab was far too absorbed to much notice Raziel's reaction, taking care to lave every trace of vitae from his brother's skin. The taste was exquisite, richer by far than any mortal's. Sweetness, yes, and a layered complexity of spice, but somehow crisp too, like a distillation of the high mountain breezes, the cold wind before dawn. Every time he was permitted this pleasure, the taste of his brother seemed to grow deeper, more nuanced, bespeaking Raziel's developing power.

When Raziel's chest was thoroughly bathed, Rahab leaned back a little to survey his work. The revealed breadth of the stab was dismaying, even given a vampire's quick recovery from such wounds. Rahab might require a half hour - a very long, very uncomfortable half hour - or more to entirely heal such a wound carved into his own hide. "You should, mnn," Rahab started, then found an untouched smear of blood down Raziel's shoulder, be more careful, brother. This could have been serious. Rahab's fingers slipped to the clasp of Raziel's cloak, letting the heavy fabric fall to the sand. As he began to draw his hands up Raziel's sides, tugging his brother's shirt up as if he meant to slip it off, Raziel's grip on the back of his neck tightened a little. _Shall I not scrub the blood from your tunic, and mend this rent, Raziel?_ Rahab whispered, slyly, tongue otherwise occupied.


	3. Chapter 3

This plea, appealing as it was, left Raziel unmoved. “Much as I am grateful for your concern with the state of my clothing,” he said dryly, “Yet I think we have lingered here long enough.” It would take time to conceal the crates, and more time to make their way back through the labyrinthine caverns and back streets to where their brethren waited. Immortal they might be, but none of them yet were old enough to have developed the kind of unblinking patience that their Sire possessed--and left to their own devices, a fledgling’s impatience oft led to disaster.

He allowed Rahab a few moments more to scrub the last traces of blood from his skin; then he pulled the younger vampire away, his grip iron-hard and unyielding. “Enough. We need to conceal these treasures, and rid ourselves of this offal. Then we must head back to the others.” He rose, straightening his tunic and swinging the heavy material of his cloak about his shoulders once more.

Rahab stole a last few licks, relishing the very texture of his elder's skin - how Rahab hoped that he too might be gifted the silky-fine underlying striations that toughened his elder brothers' hides! - before being pulled away. Rahab sank back on his heels with a sigh, though the grip at the back of his neck, and the instinctual submission such handling compelled, kept his disappointment from biting too keenly. He was not accustomed to questioning his Sire's whims, anyway, and had for the most part extended that habit to Raziel's.

"As you say, brother," Rahab murmured, rocking effortlessly to his feet once released and stretching luxuriously. His elder's potent vitae was a warm whorl in the pit of Rahab's belly, radiating a most pleasant sense of satiation. "Grant me a moment to make myself presentable for travel? And... if you wish to choose a hidden place for the treasures, I will weight down the corpses, then aid you in moving the rest of the crates."

Raziel cocked an eyebrow at the younger vampire, experience making him more than a little wary of Rahab’s sudden helpfulness. “You forget, brother, this is hardly my first visit to these caves. I already know of a place where they will remain safe until we return for them.” Whether that return was in a night or a decade or more mattered little--the cavern of which he spoke was small, but dry and hidden well in a blind turning deep within the tunnels, far above the tide and away from other nesting creatures. Kain had been the one to discover it some years ago, and they had cached other supplies there in the past, stored against future use.

“Clean yourself while I bind and weight the bodies,” he ordered, deciding to heed his suspicions and keep Rahab well in hand. “We shall dump them first, then return for the rest.” Suiting action to words, he turned away to where the sailors’ corpses lay and began the tedious process of binding limbs together with strips of cloth and salt-stiffened lengths of discarded rope. A few stones stuffed within the confines of tunic and trouser-legs, which were then tied closed, sufficed to weight the bodies. The currents around these obsidian cliffs ran swift and deep, and these would not be the first--or the last--bodies that they would devour.

Rahab sighed briefly and quietly, feeling very much thwarted. Not only would he have to wait for his prizes, but the task of disposing of the bodies was to be taken from him, if he did not hurry! His brothers did not even much like dealing with corpses, though Raziel was efficient and uncomplaining at it. Turel seemed to feel the deed beneath him, and Zephon with his extraordinary horror of water tended to botch the job nearly as often as Dumah. Rahab liked it, liked to watch the broken forms sink and attenuate beneath the surface, liked to watch the sharp-toothed fish which gathered for him in eager expectancy.

But they were far from Rahab's favorite spots along the river, here. Rahab set to vigorously scrubbing the dead blood from his skin and hair as rapidly as possible, using handfuls of gritty sand, hoping they'd not be forced to drag the bodies very far in order to commit them to the water. A messy and laborious task _that_ would be.

After a minute, when Rahab was reasonably sure of passing casual inspection, he set himself to gathering stones of just the right size for Raziel's use. The best ones, about fist-sized and dense, but neither so smooth as to slip loose nor so jagged as to tear fabric, lay near the various pools and sinkholes that interrupted the chamber's floor, and Rahab gave these as wide a berth as he could. Most of the pools were mere shallow depressions in the stone. But one, a rough circle of silver water, limpid and dim, heaving faintly with the rhythm of the sea, caught Rahab’s eye and gave him pause.

The younger vampire crouched cautiously at the sinkhole's edge. He could not see the bottom. Scooping up a handful of pebbles, Rahab breathed over them, whispering the cantrip to imbue them with a brief glow, then released them into the water. As they sank, the stones illuminated a irregular vertical tunnel, lined with some manner of vegetation the likes of which Rahab had never seen. Spears and fins and stag's horns, in white and lavender and bright orange, studded over with feathery groupings and pastel clumps of spikes, broken by dark and fathomless openings, and just there, a ribbon-twisting shape like an eel but longer than Rahab's entire body, and more, all revealed and then vanished into the deep once more. Enchanted, Rahab imbued more pebbles and dropped them in, this time catching a glimpse of a fish as round and big as a wagon wheel, and nearly that thin. The light failed before the stones reached bottom. "May we employ this chasm, brother?" Rahab asked, twisting around.

Glancing over his shoulder, Raziel frowned a little at the younger vampire’s proximity to the water. Getting scorched would teach the fledgling a good lesson--but falling in would be a deadly one.

“Be careful, Rahab,” he said, tying off the last few knots. He rose and moved to the water’s edge, laying a cautionary hand upon Rahab’s shoulder as he leaned forward to peer down. The spell-lit stones had faded swiftly, leaving only inky, rippling darkness; but the sinkhole seemed wide enough to accommodate a corpse, at least, and subtle eddies of the water’s surface seemed to indicate that the water currents within were strong enough to suit their purposes.

“Did you see any jagged outcroppings or other impediments upon the sides?” If the bodies became entangled, there would be nothing the two vampires could do, save leave them to stare upwards at the next unfortunate who might undertake to look down into the pool. It was an unlikely scenario, to be sure, but there was no need to take unnecessary risks.

Rahab leveled a look up at his brother, brows arched. They’d grown in within a few months of his raising -- Raziel still remembered a time when his sibling bad been bald as an egg -- and surely the younger vampire had been practicing in the mirror, for the gesture practically beamed aggrieved indignation. Rahab was *plenty* cautious of the acid sting of water. And his elder behaved as if this were Rahab’s first time hiding the bodies. Which it wasn’t. Of course he’d looked for ledges and obstructions.

Since he valued his tongue, Rahab did of course refrain from saying so much. Instead he nodded after a moment. “This side seems clear enough,” he offered instead, reaching to scoop up another handful of pebbles. Again, he laid over them the tracer spell, and dropped them into the water in demonstration, watching their glittering descent. Some distance down, *something* reached out with a suckered arm as thick as Rahab’s wrist and dragged a pebble into one of the dark openings, then just as quickly spat the stone back out. “What was that?” Rahab murmured, his eyes wide.

“I do not know,” Raziel replied, a bit startled himself. “I have heard fishermen and sailors speak of the monsters of the deep … some large enough to drag great sailing vessels down to the depths. Perhaps this is something akin to those?” He saw no reason to pretend omniscience in this matter; after all, it was not as if he spent a great deal of time lingering by the shore to catalogue each strange and misshapen creature that might be dragged from the ocean depths.

Tilting his head to glance sidelong at his brother, he continued, “Shall we see if human flesh is more to its taste than your pebbles?” Straightening, he head back over and hefted one of the weighted bodies, handling the clumsy bundle with skill born of long practice. What had once been a sailor now resembled nothing so much as a badly-stuffed scarecrow, with only the man’s slack and pallid face and hands still visible. Hauling the body over to the water’s edge, he checked to make sure Rahab had moved well clear of any splash--then heaved the body in.

Accustomed to this frequent ritual, Rahab scuttled neatly away from the displaced water, cloak held to cover the his hands and face from stray droplets. He returned to the edge as the splash subsided, enchanting another handful of pebbles and dropping them in with rapt interest. The corpse was ghostly in the brief glow, a stuffed and bulging man-thing, dragged down by the weight of its own limbs, howling silently up at the two killers. Fish and stranger beasts scattered like tea leaves, leaving Rahab with the feeling that their patterns of action and reaction were surely meaningful, if only he could learn to read them.

The body vanished with the light, and Rahab reached for another handful of pebbles... but withdrew his hand at his elder’s sharp and prompting sound of impatience. Ducking his head in  slightly shamed acknowledgement, Rahab went back for the last body. He could not handle it quite so efficiently as Raziel had done, and had to let the sailor’s callused feet drag, but otherwise managed the several-hundredweight form as well as any six mortal men. Using his little dagger, he opened his prey’s belly a little, entrails bulging, to make access easier for the consuming things below and keep the body from bloating and rising, and then eased the corpse into the water. A pity he did not have a long stick, with which to stir and poke at the sinking body, as he liked to do. Again, Rahab followed the corpse with some tracer pebbles, and again the fish swirled around the new addition to their world, behaving not much like the saw-toothed river denizens with which Rahab was most familiar, and indeed showing no particular inclination to drag down great sailing vessels nor much of anything else. Rahab’s brows drew together as he tried to determine if these fish and the... sucker-arm-thing simply wanted for training. Or perhaps they were defective. He hoped that Raziel would not be much displeased with him, for choosing a suboptimal sinkhole.

Raziel, for his part, did not share Rahab’s fascination, and once the body had once again disappeared beneath the inky waters, he turned back to their prizes. “Rahab,” he called sharply. “Assist me with these.” Given opportunity, the fledgling vampire would play at the water’s edge until hunger or some other ephemeral distraction diverted his interest. Raziel had never understood Rahab’s fascination with the deadly liquid, and he found his patience wearing thin. They had lingered within these caverns long enough; it was time to return to the others.

Picking up a still-sealed crate, he waited for Rahab to do the same--then moved towards the half-concealed tunnel that they had used to enter the cavern. There was another turning, barely fifty paces in, that they had not used--it would lead upward and around, to the cavern used for Kain’s hidden stores.

Rahab jumped to obey with a last regretful glance at the pool of seawater and its mysteries, but he had more than a passing familiarity with his elder's temper and the shades of tone which marked its limits. He quickly but carefully placed the wicker frames of potions back into their parent crate, scooped up the wooden lid, and forced it back on, bent studs biting with a harsh metal sound into the timbers.

Clutching his crate of fragile prizes tight to his chest, Rahab scurried after his brother, his step surefooted in the gloom. It was well that Raziel led the way, for the tunnel he selected was well-hidden, naught but a crack in the shadows between two boulders, and it turned and branched most deviously. At one point, Rahab had to drop to his knees and push the crate before him, low stone protrusions brushing his back. For a time, the younger vampire paused periodically to lay down small, faint-glowing patches by which to light their way, but soon that proved unnecessary, for another mage had been before them. Rahab sensed, vaguely, the spellweave as it was activated by the vampires' presence... but before he could call a warning, every surface around them brightened with a starlight glow, the light clean and balanced and comfortably dim. After the brothers passed through each twisting tunnel, the illumination behind them faded away, and the next segment lit itself.

Even with the better light, it was hard to spot the gap near the ceiling to which Raziel headed. But once Rahab - with some assistance - clambered up the rough wall, he found that the crack opened into a dry, sand-bottomed chamber, large and slightly curved, and lined with treasures that made Rahab gape.

Weapons and armor of rare metals were stacked against more crates which lined the walls. Jewels were spilled like baubles over a blanket on the sand. Tapestries in silk and gold were heaped in rolls. On a makeshift shelf - just a plank between two crates, a series of leather-wrapped squares could be nothing but tomes. The artifacts of a sorcerer's laboratory - great silver bowls, elaborate glassware, heavy-bottomed calcinators - were scattered everywhere. In an alcove were spread furs to which still clung, very faintly, the scents of Raziel, and of blood... and of Kain.

Awed, Rahab placed his own small crate where Raziel indicated. But as Raziel turned with maddening indifference to leave, Rahab bit his lip. "Brother, perhaps one of us should retrieve the last crate and sweep away all evidence of battle, whilst the other chooses a few vials for study later, and segregates the bloodvials," he hurried on at his elder's slanted glance. "It would permit us to return sooner."

Raziel frowned. Rahab’s suggestion, while reasonable, also left the his brother to his own devices for a fair amount of time, and Raziel was quite aware of the temptations posed by leaving a fledgling in the midst of Kain’s hoard. But at the same time, he was becoming increasingly aware of the passage of time, and found himself strangely impatient to rejoin the others and assure himself of their safety.

Allowing Rahab to pick his way alone through twisting, labyrinthine tunnels was not an option, however; Raziel could all too easily envision the younger vampire becoming disoriented and lost, or taking one step too far in the darkness, only to meet an agonizing watery death. No, twas safer for him to retrieve the last crate, and erase any lingering signs of their presence, while Rahab remained behind.

“Your suggestion has merit,” he said grudgingly, giving his brother a nod. “I shall go to retrieve the last of our spoils. Choose a few of the blood glyphs that we might take with us, but do not tamper with anything else left here--our Sire is jealous of his treasures, and many are well-warded against a thieving hand.” In truth, Raziel did not know for sure whether Kain had actually gone to such efforts to protect these particular baubles, but it seemed more likely than not--and more importantly, the threat of their Sire’s displeasure was one Rahab was likely to respect.

Rahab nodded in understanding, doing his level best to keep his expression cool and unmoved. Once Raziel had departed, however, it was all Rahab could do to keep from hugging himself with delight. He darted to the crates, noting as he did that his footprints smoothed themselves over with unnatural speed, fine sand drifting to fill the depressions. The same subtle magic probably defended the tunnels outside, making the movements of the vampires difficult to track but also meaning that Raziel wouldn't have a very long trail to cover - and that Rahab wouldn't have much time.

He pulled off the top of the previously opened crate and freed the folded woolen batting and then the three fur-lined wicker frames. As before, the beauty and potential of the assembled jewel-like vials made his breath catch. Such wonders! Rahab picked though them with long, clever fingers, finding the bloodvials which Raziel regarded so highly. There were five in this crate, and Rahab set them aside. That done, the only task remaining was to select some of the remaining artifacts for study.

But what a frustrating task! There were several dozen varieties of vials in this crate alone, and each one was a marvel to eyes and magic-sense alike. How was Rahab to choose between warm tiger-lily orange and gleaming prickly violet, or glossy quicksilver and icy blue? Rahab bit at his lip. One pale green vial was etched with alchemical sigils he recognized from one of Kain's books; Rahab set that one aside. One had a fantastically elaborate wire wrapping. Another unlike all the rest was capped very simply, with a pearl sized to fit the vial and sealed in place with wax - and there were no others like it in the crate. It felt electric when he picked it up, as if his very bones tried to flinch away. Tight about all of the vials clung a dense aura of untold enchantments.

A distant clatter of stone alerted him. But seven... seven was too many! Raziel had stipulated two or three. But how could Rahab just... just leave these precious things behind? No, no - hurriedly, the young vampire seized up three of the vials, the ones with the simplest and least bulky tops, and tearing out a bit of woolen padding, wrapped and secreted them away into the hidden pouches of his cape.

He was just closing the crate when Raziel arrived. "Those are the ones I wish to take," Rahab said, gesturing, "and there are all the blood vials I discovered in the first crate. Shall I check the other two?"

Setting his burden down carefully upon the sandy floor, next to the other crates, Raziel shook his head. “No--it will be better to leave them sealed, I think, until the time comes to use what is contained within.” One never knew what the future might hold, after all--it might be some time, perhaps even years, before they had opportunity to return.

Glancing over at Rahab’s selections, he nodded in approval--the blood glyphs would be useful, and no doubt Kain would find the others of interest as well upon his return, if they had not already been sold or found necessary for some other purpose. Pleased at Rahab’s obedience even in his absence, Raziel said graciously, “You may choose one or two more, I think--if all the crates are filled with such as these, then a pair more or less will hardly be missed.” Would that all his brethren were so biddable!

He once again wound his cloak about his shoulders, draping the heavy cloth back into its concealing folds as Rahab debated over his treasures. Reaching down, he took up the blood glyphs and wrapped them in a bit of cloth, then secreted them away within a belt-pouch. There was little sense in tempting a fledgling’s eternal appetite by leaving them within Rahab’s reach. “Choose swiftly,” he told his brother. “We must be on our way.”

Rahab gaped, uncertain for a moment that he'd heard aright. But as Raziel turned away, attending to his presentation with practiced and casual gesture, Rahab leaped to take advantage of his brother's directive. Two more! Two more of Raziel's glittering mysterious prizes, for studying and experimenting. Perhaps Rahab could learn to make more of these potions, and he let himself imagine that as he peeled the lid of the crate back again. How Kain might praise him, and Raziel would as well! Even Dumah, brute that he was, would see the utility of Rahab's efforts. A veritable multitude of possibilities gleamed in fragile glass vials, and with some deliberation, Rahab settled on his two extra philtres.

Triumphantly, head swimming with plots and plans, Rahab wrapped the vials and pocketed them, squeezing them in next to the pilfered vials. That left... erm. Four more. Thinking rapidly, Rahab dug through the pouches and pockets attached to his belt and sewn into his cloak. He transferred his comb and scraper to another pocket, discarded a fragment of mirror and a bracelet of shiny stones and a half-carved chunk of wood. That made room for three of the vials. The last one, Rahab stuffed into his coin purse, making it bulge in a way certain to attract the attention of every footpad in sight. The elaborate top of the vial didn't even fit entirely within the drawstring, but rather stuck out, robed in a whisp of white woolen batting.

Nine... nine was too many, Rahab realized with a sinking sense of dismay. He should put some back. But then Raziel would notice, would ask questions, would find the stolen ones. Rahab wilted beneath the enormity of his guilty predicament. Moving gingerly lest he clank his overcrowded treasures against something, Rahab replaced the lid of the crate and went to join his impatient elder.

Distracted by his own concerns, Raziel maintained only a casual watch over Rahab’s choices, idy noting which of the vials the younger vampire eventually claimed as his own. Once it was done and the crate resealed, he gave his brother a nod and then led the way back into the dark tunnels, winding his surefooted way back to the concealed entrance to the labyrinth. There were no stops this time to gawk or to explain, and they made swift progress, until finally Raziel could push aside the boulder blocking their exit, and they re-emerged into the lighted world.

The shadows had grown long while they had been underground, and the sun was now well past its zenith, the golden afternoon light gilding the edges of the bobbing masts and barnacled hulls of the ships at anchor. The ebb and flow of the human activity along the shoreline had not waned, however, and Raziel chose their path into the dockside warrens with care, keeping well away from both the waterline and the busiest docks.

Rahab followed close at his brother's heels, his belly as comfortably warm and full as was possible for a fledgling and his thoughts adrift with the possibilities ahead, his only care to avoid bumping or jarring his overabundance of treasures. He blinked and glanced about when they passed beyond the influence of Kain's magics, feeling suddenly, irrationally, as if layer of concealment had been peeled back from them, withdrawn. But there was no chance to further consider the impression, as their path wound through tight-packed stalagmites and broken places where Rahab had to tread carefully to avoid leaving footprints in the sand.

And then there was the city, ringing still with the cries of gulls and men. Their route was familliar, following the landmarks Rahab had seen earlier in the day, until they arrived once more at the great marketing street. There, Raziel abruptly stepped aside into the lengthening shadows, reaching out to seize Rahab by the collar when the younger vampire would have blundered ahead.

The avenue was teeming with armed men, shoving through the crowd in tight and disciplined ranks. They shouted orders, 'make way!' and 'clear a path!' but their progress was slow, the crowd parting and closing reluctantly. White tabards over plate or chain marked some of them Sarafan, some Freeport homeguard.

The blacksmith under whose crude awning the vampires stood was speaking to another peasant. "Sampson said an hour ago that something'd hit the Kent freehold. Spread pieces of 'em everywhere. All up in the trees, 'e said."

"Gnolls again, ye think?" asked the smaller man, idly watching the activity. Overhead, a murder of crows took wing from scarred walls and crumbling cornices, their sand-throated cawing a more distant echo of the human commotion.

 _Damnation._ Raziel kept his gaze hooded, all too aware of might happen if a Sarafan trooping past caught a glimpse of yellow eyes or deathly-pale skin. But both the homeguard soldiers and the Sarafan had concerns of their own, and did not notice two more cloaked figures amongst the shoving, shouting populace that lined the ave.

“Thought they’d all bin hunted out of these parts,” the blacksmith replied, craning his neck to get a better look. “Saw some hides being sold, a few years back--but even those came downriver. This is somethin else, if you ask me.”

The peasants continued with their gossip, but Raziel was not disposed to linger and eavesdrop; not now. He tugged Rahab back into the street once the human troops were past, ducking swiftly into another twisting, filthy alley running parallel to the main boulevard. This time there was a great deal more urgency to their progress, and no time at all for sightseeing--Raziel kept a firm hand upon Rahab’s arm, pulling him along ungently whenever the younger vampire might have hesitated. There was no way the others could have been involved in the massacre at the freehold--the distance was far too great, even had Turel and others left the moment Raziel was out of sight. But whatever had caused it, the result was that the Sarafan were now out in force, and his younger brethren were vulnerable, bereft as they were of Kain’s protection.

Rahab scurried to keep up, the laden folds of his cloak jouncing against mortals and objects alike in a way that made Rahab wince and feel for broken glass. As they darted down the next tight alley, a fully armed and armored Sarafan turned into the same lane, hurrying. Too late to retreat and the crowded hovels were packed too tight to jump, and Rahab raised his hands to commence battle... only to issue an undignified squeak as Raziel pinned him against one soot-stained wall.

The Sarafan pushed past both vampires with nothing but a growled curse. And then they were hurrying again, Rahab's eyes like saucers. Another turn, and they were suddenly at an intersection that Rahab recognized. Past a tavern where candlelight gleamed and a butchery now nearly empty of its day's bloody wares, and there at last crouched the dim sprawl of the abandoned warehouse.

Rahab let his breath out in a gusty sigh as he ducked under the patchy shadow of the crumbling upper levels. The cool wash over his skin was equal parts relief from the sun and a fine network of resident magics, welcoming, encompassing. Patting his pockets to be sure of his treasures, Rahab headed for the sunken stairwell that led to the cellars. The door was heavy, and as he drew it open, Rahab could hear his brothers arguing and cursing idly within, and the clack of bone dice on stone. It was only then that he realized wasn't being followed so closely as he supposed. "Raziel?" the younger vampire queried, glancing back. Perched overhead, a crow croaked. No, not a crow - a raven, heavy bodied, with thick dagger-beak.

"'Bout time you got back," growled Dumah, alerted by the creaking door. He sat, Rahab saw, on a kind of lounge fashioned by piling upon one another all the kills of the morning. The barbarian.

Letting Rahab enter first, Raziel paused, scanning their surroundings with a frown. There was something … an unease in the air, the barest prickle along his spine, that he did not like. But the warren about them was full of the normal noises that heralded the gathering dusk: the rattling of carts and the pathetic squalling of human infants, the coughs of the sick and dying and the occasional shout of anger or fear. There was no unnatural hush that might presage an attack; no scent of oiled metal or bite of holy magic upon the air. The raven perched upon the sagging roofline might be overlarge, but was only a carrion bird--common enough in these stews. It was not even a bat, much less a flock of them.

The sight of the Sarafan had left him jumping at shadows, it seemed. And the last thing he needed was for his brethren to latch upon his unformed and baseless fears! Shaking his head, he followed after Rahab, feeling the welcome net of the passive wards close about him. Navigating the stairs down to where the others waited, he grimaced at Dumah’s chosen throne. Soon enough, the corpses would begin to reek--and since Dumah apparently had such an affinity for them, Raziel decided that he would be tasked with the chore of their disposal, once it was safe to do so.

Rahab, Dumah, Turel … Raziel scanned the shadows of the cellar, his frown deepening when the expected sight of their youngest sibling did not materialize. “Turel. Where is Zephon?” he asked sharply, unease coiling cold within his belly.

Turel glanced upward at his brother’s query. “Crawled off to some hole to lick his wounds, no doubt,” he said in reply, both bored and visibly uninterested in his brother’s welfare. Zephon’s sneaking ways had done little to endear himself to Turel, who had hardly been inclined to play nursemaid in the first place, regardless of Raziel’s command.

"I doubt it. He's not that flexible," Dumah said with a shrug, missing all niceties of his brother's comment.

Turel's eyes narrowed. "Village idiots across the land are weeping for the state of their profession. It is your throw."

Vaguely aware that he might have suffered insult, Dumah hissed in pique - but it was indeed his turn at the dice, and he enjoyed gambling nearly as much as he liked fighting anyway. With a muttered curse, he picked up the dicecup. "How much longer we going to skulk here?" he demanded of Raziel, rattling the bone dice.

Rahab, who had stepped aside to permit his eldest entry, moved to squeeze past him. "I should... check on something," he murmured in feeble excuse. He'd neglected to retrive his book, and it had struck him suddenly that he should find equally safe hiding holes for his potions. Kain forbid that Turel or Dumah should find them upon him!

Rahab had scarce reached the top of the stairs, however, when... something gave him pause. He lifted his head, sniffing. It wasn't rain, nor even wet rot or bogs, and it wasn't hot steel... flowers? The distant hint of some fleshy and mottled glasshouse bloom? But that wasn't right, either.

Frozen in place for no reason Rahab could name, he watched another great raven land next to the first, then another, unafraid of the fledglings' vampiric auras which normally sent fleeing even creatures such as these.

The scent intensified with nauseating speed, became tangible as a caress, as the brush of Kain's lightningsnap aura.  No, not a scent -- rather a field of power, somehow similar to Kain's, yet like nothing Rahab had ever encountered.  But it was coming fast, so terribly fast. Rahab shivered, realized that he was trembling. "Raziel?" It was a whisper, a breath, but there was terror in it.

Every inch of Raziel’s skin seemed to prickle in warning, fine remnant hairs standing on end at the press of that alien power. Pivoting upon one heel, he lunged back up the stairs and yanked Rahab backwards, shoving the younger vampire roughly behind him. The wards flared to life in that same instant, fully activating in an electric-snap of lightning and smoky power, the scent of ancient blood and obsidian rising as if to announce Kain’s claim. The shimmering walls of power were only half-tangible, warping the air subtly, as if the thinnest film of water stood impossibly vertical between the doorway where they stood and the outside world. But beyond it …

Beyond it, the ravens were still visible. There were now so many they had become a black blot upon the adjacent rooftop, lining the cornices, the drooping eaves and rails. They did not squawk or jostle for position, nor peck at one another. They merely settled, wings beating briefly against the sky, and stood sentinel in unnatural silence, black eyes gleaming.

“Stay back, all of you,” he ordered hoarsely. It was difficult not to bare his fangs in an impotent effort to warn off whatever lay beyond the wards. As it was, every fiber of his body was tensed, prepared for the imminence of battle. Waiting for the first blow. “And Turel--find Zephon. Now!” The fledgling had to be hiding within the cellars. If he were not …

Propelled by his brother's greater strength, Rahab hit the wall beside them with a muffled sound of cracking glass. Kain's teeth!

Behind them, Turel stood, obedient in response to imminent threat as he was not otherwise. He cast about him, scanning darkened crevasses and corners, feeling actively for the muted aura of a hiding fledgling. But even as he searched, the light began to fail, attenuating, the golden light of sunset fading to swamp grey.

Dumah leapt unhesitatingly from his makeshift throne, expression intent and eager, though it was as yet unclear to him what threat they faced. He loosed the clasps of his cloak, letting the heavy fabric fall to reveal the small arsenal of weapons he wore across his back. With heavy hand, he pushed Rahab's slighter form from his path, for Dumah knew his place in battle - beside Raziel on the front lines! But... Dumah frowned in confusion. Somehow his hand had gotten wet, coated in something that made his whole arm tingle -- and his chest, too, when he tried to wipe the stuff off on his shirt. What new, sneaking magery, this? He bared his teeth, made to turn on his bookish brother.

"It’s here!" Rahab whispered hoarsely, peering up the stair, between his brothers' frames.

Outside the wards, in the main grounds of the warehouse and under the ravens' thousand glittering eyes, all was still, like a held breath. And then roiling fog shafted down, as black as Kain's mistform was pale. The mass coalesced, rising up, far too large, mist corrugating itself like hundreds of concealing wings, oil-dark feathers shifting and draping and then drawing back from rough green skin and scales like the spread of a cobra's hood - a perversion of order, the reptile evolving from the bird.

It was like nothing Raziel had ever seen. It wasn’t pale, as he and his brothers were, nor did it have Kain’s sharp-edged features, pointed and feral, the subdermal armor almost visible in the lines and angles of his body. This creature was a verdant green, and layered in muscle, and tall--even at this distance, he could tell it would overtop even Dumah by at least a head. Great ears, pointed like a bat’s, rose past the hairless dome of its skull, and its hands were split into three massive talons, not the black-clawed five fingers of Raziel’s acquaintance.

And yet … it was unmistakeably a vampire. Raziel could feel the creature’s power, the inexorable compression of immense age beating down upon his skin, even through the wards. It was as if a blanket had been laid over them, muffling the outside world as it pressed them down, filling every single pore of their flesh with the strange vampire’s alien reek. Raziel’s lips peeled back from fangs in instinctive warning, a low growl rumbling from his throat as the interloper’s slitted golden gaze fell upon them.

Raziel’s hand was clenched tight about his sword-hilt, and he moved to bar the door more fully, shouldering Dumah back and ignoring the younger vampire’s instinctive growl. “Who are you? What do you want here?” This--this must have been the threat that Kain had warned him against. But how did it find them here? And where was Zephon? _Zephon--where are you? Answer me!_

The final wisps of feathery mist coagulated around the alien vampire, falling in folds of silk that glistened like oil on darksome waters, an oddly fine vestment for a creature so warped. The vampire tilted its heavy-horned head, eyes the hot gold of sulphur lingering in turn on each of the trapped fledglings, delicative.

 _He is not here,_ Turel whispered, even as Raziel's urgent mindcall... met a blankness, a muffled and dull feel of absorption.

"I must admit," the creature murmured, and its voice was a slide of gravel, its accent thick and strange. "Your sire has thrown pups fine in form," its mouth twisted slightly, amusement there, "even if one does bark overmuch." It moved with a kind of stately grace, casual, in no haste at all, descending a few steps to where Kain's magery split the air. "That habit, I trust, can be trained out..." the creature lifted a hand to the ward.

Raziel snarled at the insult, but otherwise did not move. Their only chance at safety lay in the protections Kain had crafted for his progeny, and while it was obvious Dumah longed to test his mettle against the interloper, shouldering up behind him in impatience, Raziel was not so eager for battle. Not against *this* creature, whose power was more akin to that of his sire than anything else he had ever known.

“Raziel,” Dumah growled, his eager impatience almost palpable. “Shall we stand here and be insulted?”

“Silence!” Raziel hissed in return, without glancing away from the creature. _This is no time for rash action, Dumah! Attacking a vampire such as this would be sheerest folly--stay behind me, and protect your brethren._

He changed his focus, searching for Zephon’s mind. _Zephon. Tell me where you are._ He did his best to keep the mental touch calm, coaxing. _You shall not be punished. We have brought back treasures to share …_ He summoned the sense-memory of a blood glyph, the sweet tang of power and living blood sliding down his throat. Perhaps greed would serve to draw out an answer from his errant sibling ...

The wall of smoke and lightning crackled viciously as the alien vampire laid its hand there, cloven fingers and thumb spreading wide. But though the magical surface rippled and flashed, it gave not at all, not even as the creature's brow furrowed a little. "I should point out," the vampire said after a moment, skimming his fingers thoughtfully over the ward, "that I really need but one or two of you for my purposes. Come to heel like good pups, and I shall let the rest of you run free. Resist, and... tell me, how long does it take Kain to revive you from a beheading, these days?"

Raziel's Whisper again met the deadening influence of the shell-ward, but something clearly made it through this time. For just there, in the cavernous warehouse behind the monstrous vampire, flickered movement. Zephon's coppery head popped up from the cover of a ruined wall. The fledgling licked his lips, indecisive.


	4. Chapter 4

_Hide, Zephon_ , Raziel Whispered furiously, putting every ounce of effort and will he could to push the thought to his younger brother. There was no chance that Zephon could make it across the rubbled street to the safety of the cellars, not with that monstrous vampire directly in his path. But Zephon was surprisingly fast, even for a fledgling, and oft outmatched his elder brethren in stealth and guile. There might still be a chance for the young vampire to slink away, unnoticed by the creature currently testing the wards. Especially if Raziel made sure the ancient vampire’s attention was elsewhere.

“So you *do* know of Kain, then,” Raziel said in answer to the ancient vampire’s sally. “Though not well, it seems, if you expect us to ‘heel’, as you put it, for any other but our lord.”

“Perhaps we should take *your* head, creature, and paint our walls with your blood!” Dumah snarled, his bulk overtopping Raziel and almost an equal to the intruder’s own. Still, his brother’s authority was enough to keep him where he was--at least for the moment.

Using that brief moment of distraction created by Dumah’s taunt, Raziel reached out for Zephon once again, pushing urgent images of flight, of silence and stealth, and hiding safely in the dark. Such a command was rare--used only in times of greatest danger. This might not be a Sarafan troop or a sudden--and deadly--thunderstorm, but the danger was still the same. _Run, Zephon--do not be seen. Hide well, and we will find you when it is safe._

Behind Raziel and Dumah, Turel completed his prowling inspection of the defences and exits available them. _There seem to be no ravens over the trapdoor to the inn,_ he whispered, guessing that the infernal black birds and the alien vampire were somehow linked in power, _and no way for them to observe the tunnel that enters the sewers._ Turel edged his young mage-brother further back from the stairs, taking the smaller vampire’s place and uncasing his axe. Odd that Rahab was almost too busy picking pieces of glass from his cloak to notice the drama around him, but Turel had long accepted as futile any attempt to divine that fledgling's schemes.

His youngest brother, at least, was more transparent, Turel noted with dismay. Zephon began to duck back down, paused, thought better of it, regarded the tableau before him with measuring eyes. Then, craftily, he extended a hand, fingers flexing in a clear 'give me' gesture. He'd been promised a bribe by the Raziel-mind-touch, and he wanted it.

Before the fledglings, so close that Raziel could have reached out and touched it, the creature laughed, a low stony rumble. "Knew of? Ah, fledgling. I hope your grasp of history is so poor only because of the poverty of your resources, and not because of mental defect. Kain once served me, drank at my table - and betrayed me. Shall we see if he, at least, has become any more clever since I met him last?" And with that, the creature lifted his hands... and fisted them.

The broad door, its frame, and the heavy cut stones facing the entrance all shattered. Chunks of wood and flooring flagstones peeled back like sand blown from glass, pulverized, scoured away by forces unseen. Dust and rubble blasted high, tearing more holes in the upper levels and raining down like shrapnel on the streets outside.

Screams began to cut through the rowdy sounds of the slums at sunset.

Raziel ducked as the building began to quake about them, pushing Dumah and Turel backwards out of the doorway as timbers and fractured stone crashed down where they had stood. Skin and hair alike liberally adorned with the stone dust that hung in the air, he wheeled back upon the interloper, sword blade naked in his hand. “Are you insane?” he snarled. All his careful work and worry to ensure that they might remain hidden--obliterated in an instant! “The Sarafan are already out in force--now they shall come for all our heads!”

The wards still held, thankfully, the shimmering walls now visible in the besmirched air. However, Raziel could no longer see Zephon at all through the haze. _Hide_ , he Whispered silently, trying to maintain his concentration even through his fear and rage. _Hide well, Zephon, and you may have as much blood of mine as you wish after we escape._ It was a foolish promise to make, especially to a creature as greedy as his brother, but confronted with both the elder before him and the very real threat of the Sarafan, Raziel had little choice.

Most of the roof of the cellar had been peeled free, like the rind from a fruit, laying naked the supporting timbers and the wards which had threaded the stone. But still the latter held, a shell of ozone rendered solid, a flickering ripple in the haze of stone dust -- to the disappointment, apparently, of the alien vampire. The rafters and support beams were older, and partially rotted; one wooden post tilted sideways -- Turel shouldered it roughly out of the way as it fell.

The alien vampire clasped its hands thoughtfully behind its back, casual, expression laying somewhere between amusement and incredulity. It tilted its head. “You are... threatening me with church conscripts and stripling Sarafan?” the elder asked, making no move to draw a blade of its own. “Tell me, Raziel -- were you dropped on your head shortly after raising, perhaps? Or... hn.” The creature paused abruptly as several of the ravens took wing, circling, their harsh cries muted in the dust-laden air.

This time, when the alien vampire reached out, it crooked just one thick talon-finger. Raziel could almost see the intense flare of telekinetic magery. Another shattering crash, and as if drawn by ropes behind horses, Zephon was dragged through the rubble and stone dust. To the fledgling’s credit, he thrashed and fought but made no sound at all -- until he was jerked upright. As lightly as if he were plucking a torch off the wall, the creature reached out and seized Zephon by the throat. The fledgling assaulted viciously the arm holding him, writhing, nails flashing, snarling, spitting like an alley cat. “Is this the young mongrel that has been rattling around behind my back?” the creature asked, appearing not to much notice Zephon’s resistance as it studied him, not greatly impressed. “Well. I never did understand all of Kain’s tastes.”

And with a muscular twist, the elder vampire snapped Zephon’s neck.

The minute those massive talons closed about Zephon’s neck, Raziel was moving, leaving the safety of the wards, Whispered commands flashing at the speed of thought to his brothers.

 _Dumah, with me._ Expecting subtlety or restraint from Dumah would be a fool’s game, therefore, Raziel did not. T _ake him down; now is your chance to claim his head as your own._ He switched tracks, focusing on Turel. _Turel, move swiftly--Dumah will make the main charge, I the flank in the hopes that he will need both hands free to deal with us. Harry the creature if you can, but reclaiming Zephon is to be your goal--once the creature releases him in order to battle us, grab him and pull back behind the wards. We cannot afford to have him remain upon the field as a hostage._ It went without saying that Zephon was far too weak to be of any use against an enemy as formidable as this.

Then, one last command to his remaining brother-- _Rahab, remain behind the wards, no matter what. If we fail, you must carry word to Kain. Use the sewer to make your escape if you must--remain underground and hidden from the sky for as long as you can._ He spared a brief moment of regret for not taking more of the spell-vials they had found--the holy ones would have been most useful against the creature that now stood before them.

Zephon’s neck broke with a flat *crack*, and Raziel snarled, diving low, sword flashing out to cut the ancient vampire down at the knees. “Die, foul creature!” If he needed to hack the creature to pieces to ensure his brothers’ escape, then so be it!

The ancient vampire laughed, a low grating, as Raziel charged. "How many times have I heard that from your lips, child?" the creature asked, stepping back with a kind of agility something so large as he should not have possessed. "Just like old ti..." and then Dumah hit him.

Jagged handblade in each fist, face twisted in a terrible snarl, Dumah was a blur of fury and steel. He slammed elbow-first into the creature's side, weapons moving so fast the metal sang as it cut the air... and silk, and dense-armored skin. Droplets of black blood scented the air. The elder vampire hissed, striking Dumah from him with a fist like a sledgehammer, even as he twisted to avoid Raziel's next lunge.

Turel eased himself from the protection of the wards, shivering a little at the feel of magics crawling over his skin. He stole a split second to take the measure of the chaos before him. Handblades were damnably difficult to wield - when had Dumah practiced? But then his sibling was flung away like a ragdoll, and Turel spotted an opening. Darting forward, he hacked at the thick-corded arm holding Zephon.

With an expression almost of perplexity, the green-skinned vampire dropped his limp prize in favor of drawing his sword. Zephon hit the ground with a shimmer, a dull greenish shell forming around and over him.

Dumah slammed into the broken remnants of a wall in a shower of dirt and rubble, rolling with the impact. The blow was not enough to deter Kain’s third-born, however--he rolled to his feet, and charged forward again with a roar. Thick-skulled Dumah might be, but none could ever say that it did not show to his advantage on the battlefield.

Raziel knew from hard-won experience that there was no chance he could match this elder vampire in strength--not when even the merest glancing backhand blow was enough to send him reeling. Lunging inward, he ducked underneath the green creature’s first swing, slicing his own blade in a shallow gash across that corded abdomen and then diving away at the end of his stroke. The silken cloth parted instantly, as did the verdant flesh beneath--only to seal over again moments later, leaving only the remnant blood upon his blade as evidence it had ever existed.

Snarling, Raziel attacked again, only to have that blue-steel blade sweep around at impossible speed. Only a desperate parry stopped the edge from his throat, and the elder’s blade bit deep into his own with the screaming of metal upon metal, gouging deep and driving him to one knee. Disengaging, Raziel retreated, using Dumah’s bull-rush to give himself room to maneuver. Then he was upon his foe once more, the two fledgling vampires harrying their ancient foe like wolves upon a bull, drawing him away from their fallen brother.

Turel, seeing his chance, lunged for Zephon’s fallen form--only to have his reaching hands repelled in a scorching magical rebuke by the shield that lay over his brother’s body. _Damnation--Raziel, the creature has warded him somehow. I cannot move him!_

In momentary distraction at his brother's whisper, Raziel lost the last six inches of his sword to the elder's blue-steel blade, the inferior metal parting like paper, and then he was fully engaged in fighting for his life. Turel winced; there'd be no help from that quarter. Damnation, thrice over!

Turel reared back, axe held high, and chopped down over Zephon's leg, which Turel judged an acceptable loss. The ward crackled and repelled the weapon, blunting it and nearly jarring it from Turel's hands. No good. Blast this overgrown goblin to the pits of - Turel's eyes narrowed as the creature, laughing, flung Raziel from him with a bolt of magical force. Calculating rapidly, Turel shifted his stance and his grip on the axe. He whispered _get down, Dumah!_ into his brother's murder-red mind, even as he flung his axe. The heavy weapon flipped end over end, missing Dumah by a hair's breadth. The elder vampire batted the axe from the air with a hiss of annoyance, and leveled a bolt of energy at Turel, even as Raziel rejoined the fray.

Turel dove for cover... behind Zephon's insensate body. The creature's bolt struck the ward it had laid. Crackling and spitting, the shield absorbed the forcebolt - and refracted it straight up, punching through the remains of the roof, jettisoning debris. Some hundreds of feet overhead, the bolt detonated like an eastern fire-blossom, brighter than the sunset.

The ward over Zephon still held. This time, Turel cursed aloud.

From his perch atop a rafter under Kain's protection, Rahab observed his brothers' plight. The fight was a blade-flashing blur, a cruel kind of game, Raziel and Dumah rapidly growing more battered and the ancient apparently little worse for wear. Turel... Rahab swallowed hard, gnawed at his lip in indecision. The creature's shield was hurriedly-made, and after the force bolt, threads of magic drifted loosely around it, unconnected ends by which to perhaps unravel the whole mass. Rahab looked to Raziel - just in time to see Kain’s eldest lose his sword to a wrenching twist - and back to Zephon.   The longer they stayed, the greater the risk to them all... and Raziel would not leave one of their number behind.  Rahab steeled himself... and darted through Kain's ward-bubble. As the last of the Kainites left the protection of the cellars, the shield there began to power down, attenuating.

Across the warehouse, the creature caught Raziel's mangled blade in its bare hand, reversed it, and stabbed backwards, meeting Dumah's furious charge. The broken sword pierced the fledgling below the sternum, driving through, exiting between the ribs. This time, Dumah did cry out, a short, shocked scream as he staggered back, trying to wrench the jagged weapon free of his flesh.

The monstrous vampire laughed darkly. "I did so hope it would come to this, fledgling," it said, extending its free hand to Raziel. But this was no gesture of invitation, for steely bands of telekinetic power dragged the young vampire to a halt, compressed his ribcage, lifting him off the ground as if his struggles were simply beneath notice. "We have so much to-" something _thwapped_ , and the creature frowned down at a crossbow quarrel embedded in the leathery skin and fine scales at the center of its chest.

"Die, foul creature!"

That first quarrel was rapidly followed by others as a jumbled group of city guards and Sarafan charged into the narrow confines of their makeshift battlefield. The guardsmen were visibly apprehensive, eyes white-ringed as they released bolt after bolt into the melee, heedless of the danger to human bystanders. To encounter not just one, but SIX vampires, right in the heart of Haven, was a thing unheard of, a positive plague of bloodsuckers--and their terror at combatting such monsters was obvious.

The Sarafan, however, were another matter entirely. Armed and anonymous behind church-crafted helms, they joined the fray without hesitation. Vampires had become a rare breed since the last crusade against them, but they were nonetheless well-trained warriors, veterans of many battles with the other, lesser supernatural beasts that still plagued less-settled lands. Armed with sword and pike, holy symbols upon shields and armor, they charged forward as one, shouting their defiance and intent upon cutting down their prey.

Caught in an invisible grasp and now weaponless, Raziel belatedly registered the entrance of the Sarafan with something close to despair. Without the protection of Kain’s wards, there was little chance for his brothers. Against such a combination of foes, how were any of them to survive?

 _Turel, Dumah, Rahab--you must run! Retrieve Zephon if you can, but if you cannot, then escape whilst the Sarafan blunt their blades against this creature!_

Only Dumah, caught in a haze of frustration and battle-frenzy, had the temerity to protest. “But--”

 _Do it NOW!_

His blade gone, Raziel resorted to the only weapon that remained to him. Even wounded, the creature’s invisible grip had not weakened--but he had made the mistake of allowing Raziel within arm’s reach of his prey. Straining, he lashed out with every ounce of strength, and sank his fangs deep into the meat of the elder vampire’s arm, the only part of the creature he could reach. The taste of the elder’s blood hit him like a thunderbolt, left him blind and deaf as purest power cascaded over his tongue, and instinct took over as thought fled, deepening the bite in a determined attempt to tear flesh from those ancient bones.

"Vorador," said the elder, glancing at Raziel's sharp-fanged struggles with clear amusement - and, oddly, a certain nostalgic fondness. He dragged the fledgling closer, out of the path of an incoming quarrel. "My name is not 'creature'; I am Vorador." the elder stated, sheathing his sword and prying Raziel's snarling, snapping jaws from his arm. The wound there was deep, taking a few moments to close. A light tossing motion served to fling Raziel, still bound up like a spider's silk-wrapped prey but his mouth smeared with the distillation of aeons, away from the onrushing knights. Vorador moved with casual ease to meet them, hands spread, drawing attention to himself, a single figure in once-fine robes standing alone against twenty armed and roaring men.

"You should know the name of your killer, after all," said the elder conversationally, his chest bristling with missile shafts. A faint purple glow gathered around his great-clawed hands. "Particularly since you were meant to be occupied out of town by now."

Rahab, crouched beside Turel, ducked lower and shivered. Could the humans feel the sepulchular mist, the rising grave-wind? He watched in awe as a curtain of shadowy symbols - flowering whorls and circles cut and quartered, jagged glyphs and arcane equations - closed around the battlefield, passing in ghostly tatters through walls, a strange and subvisual encircling. Beautiful. And wrong, so very, very wrong. It raised the fine hairs at the back of Rahab's neck.

"I will have to have a word with your inefficient watch commander," said Vorador thoughtfully. Overhead, the ravens took wing as one, feathers slapping the air as they fled. An odd little frisson passed over the vampires. And then every living creature within the arc of that great arcane wheel began to scream.

  
Metal clanged, knights dropping their weapons, yeomen their pikes. The mortals clutched at their bellies as if poisoned, their heads as if deafened. Scrabbling hands tore helmets and armor away, and then more, each soldier gouging at his flesh with his own nails. Foul purplish liquid seeped from the soldiers' eyes and the wounds they carved upon themselves; some vomited, or lost control of their bowels. The spell seemed to work more slowly upon the leaders among the knights, those wearing the greatest array of holy symbols. They screamed the longest.

One knight, tearing at his wrist with his teeth, managed to peel the flesh away from pale bone, his strength desperate. The rest of the hand came off more quickly, laying bare every joint and articulation. Bony fingers carved deeper than fleshy ones, and scalp and eyes and face tore away like clay. The knight's screams stopped when his own skeleton gouged out his throat, and then there was only the cold slap of meat as the animated corpse set to freeing itself of skin and muscle and organs. Then it took a few shambling steps and began to assist its nearest neighbor. One by one, the undead emerged from the living.

Turel swallowed hard. _Stay here. Stay down, be ready to run_ , he whispered into Rahab's mind, and then left the scant protection of the elder's ward. He kept low, but there were no more crossbow bolts - every soldier lucky enough to have been outside the spell's influence had fled. The skeletons paid him no heed as he reached Dumah's side. The younger vampire had fallen to one knee, teeth gritted. He'd drawn two bolts from his hide, but the notches and jags which Raziel's blade had acquired made it neigh impossible to remove without better leverage - which Turel supplied, wrenching the steel free with a terrible hiss of metal on bone. Dumah choked on his agony, then lunged as Turel offered the crook of his elbow and the thick artery there; he could afford Dumah only a few moments to recover, and the wrist was too slow by far.

Rahab nodded firmly, hoping very sincerely not to be noticed by anything at all, awed by the magnitude of the necromancy he had witnessed. The ward over Zephon's body was a much simpler thing. It had deflected half a dozen crossbow bolts, and now there were many loose ends - Rahab could feel them. They were right _there_. Rahab reached out with fingers that still tingled from that first broken potion, and tugged on them.

Engaged in removing the quarrels from his own hide and ruined silk robe, Vorador winced. "You do begin to try my patience, fledglings," he said, turning. There was a degree of weariness in the set of his shoulders.

  
The elder's sulfur gaze fell on Rahab like a weight. In desperation, the fledgling grabbed at another handful of tangled magical threads.

The ward around Zephon collapsed with a faint and deflating hiss.

With his own hiss of surprise, the ancient vampire seized Rahab from across the warehouse, flung him away with an easy sweep of telekinesis. Rahab tumbled over the floor and fetched up hard against a wall - scattering a trail of glittering vials behind him. One of them clinked, bounced, rolled over the uneven floor, finally coming to rest in a skeleton's shambling path.

One bony foot descended--and came down squarely upon the warded vial. The glass vial shattered under the weight, its wire-wrapped wards no match against the skeleton’s oblivious tread …

… and the world erupted into flame.

Incinerating its luckless skeletal benefactor in an instant, an elemental salamander boiled out of the scattered shards of its prison, coiling upward within a cascading pillar of fire. The shockwave of the blast sent the remainder of the skeletons tumbling, blackening bone and setting the remnant clothing aflame. Vampires and humans alike were blown off their feet and scrambled for cover, taking refuge behind whatever they could find as fire licked over stone and wood alike, racing over the ground and up the sides of ramshackle buildings, hanging unnaturally upon the very air.

Screaming in terror, the unlucky inhabitants of the stews fled, stumbling out into the streets only to find themselves trapped by flame upon on all sides. As if fed by the humans’ fear, the fire seemed to redouble its efforts, flames leaping unnaturally through empty space to fasten themselves upon the rooftops, the rising wind fanning the inferno ever higher. Caught at the heart of the blaze, Turel and the others cowered behind what remained of the warehouse’s rubbled walls, cringing as the fire licked ever nearer. Even Dumah’s battle-fury stood little chance against this most elemental of terrors, and only Turel’s hard grip upon his shoulder kept him from abandoning his brethren in order to escape the flames.

Still pinned and helpless within the elder vampire’s telekinetic grip, Raziel strained against his invisible bonds. To be caught so, helpless while flames licked at flesh and bone until one was nothing but ash--it was any vampire’s worst nightmare. Terror threatened to overwhelm thought entirely--and before he could lose what remained of his sense, he reached out for his brother.

 _The sewers, Turel! Retrieve Zephon, and take the others--they are your charges now. Leave me, and run for the sewer entrance--Rahab can lead you to a place that is safe!_ For if this unnatural fire continued, the entirety of Freeport might well be set ablaze--then only the sewers and the sand warrens beneath the earth would be safe. Floating cinders licked at his skin, his hair, and Raziel’s own trapped panic turned his Whisper into a sharp-edged mental scream. _RUN!!_

 _Don't you dare play martyr, you rock-headed excuse for a..._ Turel whispered furiously, then lost concentration as the spiraling column of flame broke through the thick beams which held up what remained of the upper warehouse levels. No natural flame had ever been so malignant, impossibly quick to seek out destruction. With a terrible, snapping groan, the building began to collapse.

Daring not to draw breath lest the superheated air scorch him from the inside, Turel turned on Dumah. _Get Rahab and get out!_ Turel ordered, shoving his brother in the right direction. Mouth smeared with his elder's blood, his impalement wound a fiery lance of agony in his side and animal panic tearing at his mind, Dumah needed no further command. He broke and fled for the street, hesitating only to seize up Rahab, stunned and scorched, as he ran. The young mage’s cries of protest -- or of terror -- were swallowed by the screaming, fleeing mob and the roar of the inferno.

Embers and slabs of roofing slate rained down around Turel as he ran. A great arm of flame licked from the fire elemental's mass, splintering skeletons, setting Turel's cloak alight as he threw himself beneath it. Turel rolled to his feet and ripped the heavy fabric away, leapt a flailing, crumbling skeleton. _Curse you, Raziel -- where are you?_

Across the warehouse, Vorador shouldered away the sheet metal which the initial blast had jettisoned atop him, and stood, brushing himself off as he surveyed the unfolding disaster. Peasants ran screaming past the flaming remains of the warehouse's one wooden wall, and the tavern across the street had already erupted in flames. Only eight - no, now six - of his painstakingly crafted undead remained, dumbly striking at insubstantial flames with swords that melted in their hands, their bones shattering as the marrow boiled within. And the fledglings - Vorador waved a falling beam away before it could crush the second-eldest whelp - were escaping. How had rank neonates managed _this_?

The salamander -- that living core of flame -- attacked with a howl, and Vorador raised another shield with well-practiced gestures. Enveloped in a translucent, cool-blue bubble, the ancient vampire strode unhesitating through the smoke and furious flames.   In its elemental fury, the fire creature scrabbled ineffectually at the vampire's ward and then turned crackling upon its surroundings instead.  Another grinding snap overhead, and Vorador frowned, raised both hands, telekinetically catching the whole of the collapsing roof and binding it midair. Flaming timbers roared and crackled but did not fall. _By Janos_. His own fledglings had never been this bloody difficult.

The youngest of Kain's brood was closest, laying battered and burned, flames sprouting from stone to caress his insensate skin. Vorador seized up the limp form and, with unaccustomed difficulty, worked the magery to teleport the whelp away. It had been centuries since Vorador found himself forced to handle so many simultaneous spellweaves. Thoroughly aggravated, Vorador went to retrieve the other two fledglings.

Blinded by flames and smoke on all sides, Raziel could do nothing but strain against his bonds, putting every ounce of his vampiric strength into a vain attempt to free an arm, a hand, anything at all--but all his efforts achieved exactly nothing. Licking flames curled up a nearby fallen timber, then jumped to catch his cloak alight. Purest terror fogging his vision, Raziel cried out, then choked, coughing helplessly as smoke and the incendiary air seared his lungs.

Diving out of the way of yet another burst of flame, Turel slapped away burning cinders with frantic hands, then scrambled to his feet, searching through the haze for his brother. But vision and scent alike were useless in midst of this chaos, where all about him was smoke and flame. Then, through the hissing roar of the salamander, he heard a cry. _Raziel!_ He began to run towards it--then paused as the glint of glass caught his eye. Upon the ground was a vial--one of the ones Rahab had been carrying, akin to the one that had started this imbroglio, capped only with a pearl. He hesitated, then scooped it up and ran. Any weapon, even an unknown one, was better than none at all.

When this was over, he was going to throttle Rahab. Just throttle him. Raziel too. Sustained by that pleasant thought, Turel tucked the vial into his belt and darted around the smoking remains of lesser undead.

A few more steps, and Turel nearly stumbled over his brother. Raziel’s clothing was already alight, and were Turel fool enough to breathe, he knew he’d smell scorching hair... and skin. Scarce breaking stride, Turel seized his brother’s arm, dragging the dead weight even as he tore at Raziel’s flaming cloak and tunic. Tossing the scraps of fabric aside, he hoisted his brother’s body facedown over his shoulder and ran.

The smoke and flames parted before him, and Turel knew a momentary ray of hope. And then, cloaked in a sphere of cool air, the vampire ancient stepped from the inferno, a jade idol wreathed in flames. “Going somewhere, fledgling?” Vorador said, eyes narrowed.

Surrounded by flame upon all sides, Raziel still struggling blindly upon his shoulder, Turel did not stop to bandy words. Spotting a crumbling gap within a nearby fire-wreathed wall, he dived for it, slamming his unburdened shoulder against the weakened stone with every gram of vampiric strength he possessed. The wall crumbled, dumping both fledglings upon the other side in a shower of stone and cinders. Panic beating against the confines of his skin, Turel wrapped black-clawed fingers about Raziel’s flailing arm, intending to yank his brother free and escape this hellish place.

The remains of the wall through which they’d come shattered outwards, reduced to pebble-sized chunks, a stone hail that fell across the entire street, clattered against nearby buildings. Parting the rubble with a sweep of his hand, the elder vampire stepped through, an easy stride that moved him with such impossible speed -- Kain’s grace in the body of a juggernaught. “Perhaps I neglected to mention --” he said, seizing up Turel by the throat, three great leathery talons like bands of steel, “-- that you fledglings have strained my patience quite thoroughly. Now tell me...” the talons tightened even as Turel fought, lashing out against green skin that still showed no evidence of past injury, “..what shall I do with the two of you?”

Wide-eyed, Turel could feel it, could feel the ancient’s wrist rotate, and knew that his neck would snap in this merciless grasp as easily as Zephon’s....

...when Raziel, having freed a single arm from his weakened telekinetic bonds, wrapped his hand about one massive green ankle, yanked himself forward, and sank his fangs deep into the dense green muscle of the elder’s leg.

Scorched and weakened, the terrorized fledgling held on with the tenacity of a bulldog; but despite Raziel’s best efforts, the wound was trivial, an annoyance at best. Vorador did not even flinch, glancing away from his newest captive for but a moment--

\--but that moment was all Turel needed.

With a single swift movement, Turel grasped desperately for his purloined vial, alien magic sparking against his fingertips, and smashed the fragile glass down upon that broad green brow. Liquid infused with the holiest of magics splashed outward, anointing fledgling and elder vampire skin alike, and Turel’s own scream was lost in the thunder of Vorador’s pained roar. Dropping his prey, the elder vampire staggered backwards, flinging his head from side to side in a vain attempt to rid himself of the inimical magic that was searing its way into undead flesh.

The burn was deeper than flames, more bitter than the acid bite of water. It sank into every tissue, uncoiling the very essence of vampiric existence, unmaking substance. The pain was indescribable, incandescent, worse than any torment or injury Turel could remember suffering. The spattered droplets were the stab of a dozen envenomed stilettos, and his hand -- if he could have formed words, drawn breath for anything but screaming, he’d have begged for its amputation. Vorador’s devastating backhand, a flailing bodyblow that shattered ribs and flung the fledgling across the avenue and through several crude wooden walls, was a comparative mercy.

But by far, most of the potent anointing oil -- a king’s ransom, and enough to consecrate the grounds of several churches -- had splashed over the vampire ancient. Dense green flesh smoked, blackened to ash, and did not heal. Behind them, the warehouse caved in with a terrible booming crash and gout of embers, smashing skeletons and cellars and the fire elemental beneath tons of stone and timber; only the shield still sparking around the elder kept the flaming debris from crushing Raziel in an instant. Vorador’s aura, that oppressive field of power that seemed to thicken the very air around him, blackened and deepened into rage, dampening the fledgling’s minds, broadcasting his fury for miles -- every animal, every human with even a spark of mage-sense, knew tangible and unreasoning terror.

The rough leather of talons -- now corroded and blackened -- closed with cruel strength on Raziel’s head, around the curve of Raziel’s skull, and Vorador dragged the fledgling upright and off the ground with that monstrous grip. The elder’s visage was a horror-mask, a blackened ruin, the sweep of his ears eaten away and great scar runnels carved in his flesh, a fang the length of Raziel’s finger gleaming where part of Vorador’s lip was gone. “That,” hissed the elder, squeezing, “was _unmannerly_.”

Twisting and writhing within that relentless grip, Raziel hissed at his captor, bloodied fangs bared in a grimace of defiant terror. Flames had already scorched wide swathes of skin, and a few stray droplets of holy oil had seared their way even deeper, carving agonizing bloody trails over an arm and one shoulder. The inferno around them alone was enough to terrorize any fledgling--much less one now wounded and pinned by an enraged elder--and nothing remained of the proud warrior that Kain had left behind to guard his progeny. Only a creature of instinct remained, frenzied with fear and desperate to flee, to find some dark place, to seek out the safety of his Sire’s protection. Thrashing, he kicked and bit at empty air, hissing impotently and crying out in pain as his own efforts tore open burned flesh, creating gaping, black-edged wounds.

Mouth tight, skin still sizzling, Vorador stalked a few steps to a place where a few stones remained stacked atop one another in semblance of a wall, Raziel’s thrashing legs dragging through the debris. Then, like a man breaking open a melon, the ancient smashed the fledgling’s head upon the stones. The concussive thunk was meaty, wet-sounding -- not quite hard enough. It took two more skull-cracking bashes before the young vampire went limp, brain bruised beyond tolerance.

The rest of the Kainites were close, Vorador could sense them cowering. But, injured more seriously than he’d been in centuries and with scores more Sarafan surely on their way, Vorador saw little profit in pursuit. He had what he needed, what he’d come for.

Vorador called upon his magery and vanished, Kain’s firstborn firmly in hand.


	5. Chapter 5

  
It was an eternity before Raziel stirred again--or at least so it seemed, given how he felt.  Every inch of him seemed to hurt, his skin burning from where it was wrapped around his cold and hungry bones.  The dichotomy didn’t make sense, but Raziel was past caring--all he knew was that he was hungry, desperately so, and yet every time he moved, he was punished for his temerity with agonizing spikes of pain that broke him apart and sent him spiralling back into the dark once more.  

Another age passed--an eon, during which the mountains themselves must surely have fallen and risen again--and then something changed.  Hot life, rich and iron-bright, dripped over his tongue, slicked over cracked lips.  He reached for it blindly, driven by a need that overrode the pain, and dug fingers into soft flesh and yielding warmth as he bit down and drank, sucking down the rich and glorious vitae with the desperation of a drowning man.  It settled warm in his belly, thawed the icy cold of his bones as he drank until there was nothing left, pulling out every last drop and searching for more.  Then he sank backwards, embracing the dark stillness again, feeling the subtle changes in himself … bones shifting, small internal movements that realigned what had been broken, sealed what had been torn.  His eyes, when he opened them, registered only a world of soft edges and dizzying twists that refused to focus, but scent and touch told him of hard, smooth stone beneath him, of musk and sandalwood and blood upon the air, and over it all another scent, one that permeated everything in this place.  Steel and smoke and ancient blood … it was the scent of an elder vampire, and Kain’s enemy--Vorador.

That scent brought an instinctive tensing, and the grit and tackiness of bare but dirty skin on seamless marble, the contact unfiltered by clothing.  Not even his cloak or boots were left to Raziel -- and when had that happened?  The bitter ashy taste of the fire was still in his mouth, clinging to his skin.  After some time, the dim greenish blur directly before Raziel’s eyes resolved itself into dark stone floor, exquisitely cut and shot through with veins of silver and white.  A small movement of one bare foot encountered the cool polished curve of hardwood, and metal and woolen threads bundled together like a tassel.  It took minutes more before Raziel’s vision quit swimming in and out of focus whenever he tried to fix on anything more than a few feet away, and even still, his surroundings were revealed only in glimpses -- heavily embroidered fabrics, gold leaf and iron filigree, stone and wood both polished to a reflective luster.  Elegantly solid pieces of furniture, the function of which was difficult to divine from this angle, crystal fixtures cupping faint magelights... and a door, standing ajar.

What manner of prison was this?

After a time, he slid a hand across the smooth stone of the floor, flexing fingers experimentally.  When the movement was not immediately punished by pain, he tried again, this time moving both hands in an attempt to push himself upwards.  The resulting movement produced a chorus of aches from the entirety of his body, not to mention a nauseating wave of dizziness that threatened to send him crashing downward once more.  Clenching his teeth, he held on, and after a few moments the world settled back into its normal alignment.

His head felt like an egg, precariously balanced upon his neck and threatening to fall at any moment.  After successfully propping himself against a nearby wall, he gingerly explored his skull with one hand.  There were softer spots upon the surface of his skull, ones that he did not remember from before, with dried blood clumped together in his hair and crusted over still-healing wounds.  It seemed his head truly did bear rather more resemblance to a cracked egg than he’d realized-- Raziel supposed he should be grateful that at least the yolk still seemed to be in place.  

His gaze, however, was inevitably drawn back to that invitingly open door.  Surely escape could not be so easy … but it was not in his nature to give up without ever trying.  With one hand against the wall, he struggled to his knees--then, carefully, to his feet.  Ignoring the shameful weakness of his limbs, he began his slow progress towards the door, grasping at walls and furniture as he went.  The hunger in his belly was a gnawing, cold thing, and it did little to still the fine trembling of his hands as he reached his goal.  Still, he reached for the open doorjamb, in order that he might pass through--

\--only to be thrown backwards, his shaky balance spilling him again to the floor as a ward flared to life, shocking his reaching hand and rendering it numb to the wrist.  If he had not been so injured, the shock would have been nought more than an annoyance, quickly shaken away.  As it was, he did not move for several long minutes, panting through the pain.  Then, grimly, he pushed himself to his feet once more, determined to explore the rest of this overly-ornate cell.  Surely there must be something he could use ....

The room was large, with a number of nooks and drawers to be examined, though the first few that Raziel opened contained nothing save brushes and small glass vials, ink and vellum, wax ingots and a blunted and ornate letter opener.    Fine tapestries and mirrors graced some of the walls, and between them hung manacles.  There were restraints, too, in strange places upon some of the tables, benches, and the broad and curtained expanse of the bed.  One particularly elaborate device, in the center of the room, seemed like a padded stand, slightly tilted, as if to support a reclining torso slightly above waist-height.  A sculpture of a fawn, apparently solid silver from the weight and warm metal glow, was not attached to its marble pedestal, and could perhaps be used as a clubbing instrument.  Drapes hung near the piece of art, the embroidered damask swaying a little in a draft of cool, humid air.   

More carefully this time, Raziel eased back the heavy curtain, finding that it slid open on rings.  Beyond lay a wide balcony, stonework lit in starlight.  He was permitted only a single step outside before his outstretched fingertips encountered the perimeter of a ward akin to the one on the door, an electrical tingling that hinted at a greater rebuff if Raziel tried to pass.  But a step was far enough to glimpse what lay below, beyond the delicately carved railing.  

 _Water._

Not merely a moat nor pools, but rather a swamp, vast and rampantly green.  The rustling tops of buttressed swamp-trees stretched for as far as Raziel could see, choking the horizon for a hundred miles or more.  The distant cries of strange animals, inaudible inside the chamber, rang through the night.  Far below, lights like uplifted lanterns drifted -- will-o-wisps, renowned for leading men to death in the sucking mud.  Vines draped the mansion’s stonework, pale green moths the size of Raziel’s two spread hands plied the luminous blossoms, flitting between thorns as big as they.  

“I was beginning to suspect you might lay in torpor for a week,” Vorador rumbled from behind -- for all his great mass, he moved in silence.  “And to think, I imagined that the spawn of Kain would prove more... durable.”  The elder had found silks to replace the ones destroyed in battle.  But other insults, evidently, were more trouble to erase -- rivulets still scored the flesh down the elder’s green-skinned face and neck, the great upsweep of his ears was notched and uneven.  

At the sound of the elder’s voice, Raziel turned--perhaps a little too fast.  The world lurched sickeningly, and he was forced to dig his fingers into the balcony’s molded archway for balance, forcing himself to remain upright.  Ignoring the other vampire’s insults, he asked instead,  “Where am I?  Why have you done this?”  

Attacks by humans, he knew well--but never before had he encountered a vampire who was not blood-kin or his Sire.  Much less one of such immense power;  even now he could feel it pressing down upon him, so thick it was almost palpable.  Fear and guilt suddenly assailed him--Kain had warned him against this creature, had charged him with his brothers’ welfare, and he had failed in his duty.  What would happen to him now?  And where were the others?  Had they escaped?

The elder vampire arched a brow ridge, the horny-looking tissue fissured and pocked by the splash of Turel’s vial of holy magic.  “This is the Termogent Forest, child; my dominion -- and you are hardly in a position to ask so many questions.”  The ancient tilted his head slightly, leaning back against an odd, padded table.  His gaze was like a weight on Raziel, assessing, measuring.  The aura that lapped against Raziel’s mind seemed to thicken, a subtle and easy expansion.  Vorador’s voice was a tremor, an earth-deep vibration in the base of the fledgling’s brain.  “Come here.”

Raziel’s knees almost buckled under that potent call.  Concerned only with survival, every vampiric instinct he possessed called for his submission, to abase himself before his elder and hope for mercy.  But Raziel’s own stubbornness ran even deeper, an unyielding obxidian core that tightened his lips and steeled his spine. Lifting his head before Vorador, he refused to move.  Raziel’s defiant nature had long been a source of frustration and pride both for his Sire over the decades--now it served to harden his will against a creature unfathomably older.

“I think not,” he said evenly, fangs bared in an instinctive snarl.  “Having experienced your kindness once, creature, I find myself not particularly inclined to invite it again.”  

Vorador chuckled, a deep rumble, a genuine sound of amusement.  He stroked his palm over the crushed velvet padding of the inclined device against which he leaned, the gesture idle and lazy, as if Vorador had all the time in the world.  Perhaps he did.  “A spirited young wolf, to be sure,” he murmured.  Not even Kain, as a newly-risen fledgling, had evidenced such fine and fiery temper.  Certainly, none of his own spawn had resisted Vorador so, not for long, and not while wounded, filthy, and scarce able to stand.  What a challenge -- delightful, really.

Such a shame that this fledgling wore the body of a murderer of thousands, from the ages when Vorador had let himself become attached to his progeny, when he’d thought that immortality meant forever.  And now their little killer wavered before him, in a body that could bear some fraction of the retribution due him.  That, too, was a pleasant thought.  “I wonder, cub, which of your victims you remember?  Decimus, perhaps?  Tita’s coven... or Aula?”  Odd.  He thought he’d long ago excised the pain of their loss.  He dare not even think of his greatest loss of all -- he’d spent too long in piecing his sanity back together after... well.  After.  

Raziel frowned, his brow knitting in puzzlement.  “Victims?  Is that why you have done this?  Because we somehow killed those you had marked for your own?”  Kain could take great offense, Raziel knew, if any of his progeny overreached in their greed and tried to claim what he saw as his.  Perhaps this elder had become incensed over a similar trespass?  But Raziel had never been to this desolate place, nor ever encountered another vampire besides his brethren before now--how could they have possibly trespassed upon such an ancient creature’s territory and never known it?  

“I do not know any of those names,” he said warily, eyeing the elder before him with trepidation.  “Is there some reason that I should?”  Did elders often name their prey before slaking their thirst?  It seemed an odd habit to cultivate ...

“You... ‘somehow killed’ --  _some reason_? ”  Vorador was there and then... just gone, fast beyond the ability of fledgling eyes to follow.  Raziel never saw the blow, the heavy cuff that struck him to the finely-crafted floor.  The fledgling had a moment only to catch his breath before he was hauled upright again, this time in a familiar telekinetic grip that left his toes above the floor.  “ _Some_ _ reason __, Raziel?_ ” the baring of the elder’s fangs as he hissed was a terrifying thing, on levels deeper than the mere rational.  The ancient lifted his leathery palm again, as if to strike once more... then halted, stilled.  

Infuriating, this little knight.  It had been decades since Vorador had found himself the subject of such mockery, subtle or no.  Of course, before Kain, Vorador had thought himself beyond entrapment in these petty games -- for millennia he’d been the one to set the rules, to name the stakes.  Perhaps this Sarafan whelp should be made to play for something greater.  “A fine question, fledgling,” Vorador rumbled as if to acknowledge Raziel’s scored point.  He stroked his upraised hand lightly down the side of Raziel’s angular face instead, all hint of his sudden surge of anger now vanished.  “And now I have one of my own.  Were you aware that you would be affected thusly... by your own weapon of choice?”  The elder’s talons were textured, catching, like shark’s hide as they slid down, over Raziel’s shoulder, to the place where droplets of holy anointing oil had splashed.  The channels and pits carved by each tiny drop were still raw and open, and with every evidence of enjoyment, the ancient vampire dipped the tips of his talons into the wounds.          

Already battered and dizzied by the earlier blow, Raziel cried out, the sharp-edged agony of those talons digging deep into his unhealed wounds taking him by surprise.  Throwing his head back, he tried to arch away from that tortuous touch, to no avail.  The elder’s telekinetic grip was just as immutable as it had been in Freeport, offering no chance at escape.  

Those massive talons twisted delicately, and Raziel bit back another abortive cry, containing it behind gritted teeth.  “I … I don’t understand,” he panted, caught between the urge to cringe away and the urge to snarl defiance at his tormentor.  “You attacked us … drew the Sarafan to our door.  W-why are you punishing us for defending ourselves?”  Was this creature not a vampire too?  Was it possible he was in league with the humans, in order that he might better hunt his own kind?

“If memory serves, fledgling, you chose battle over submission, did you not?”  The touch grew lighter, a soft stroking.  “It would have been simpler to collar you on the spot, and let you free.  Though I must admit...” Vorador found another deep burn, and contemplatively, delicately, slipped the point of his talon into the open wound.  “...I am rather pleased that you resisted.  Your choice affords us so much more time to... re-examine our shared history, don’t you think?”  And the elder twisted his talon.

When Raziel’s breathless cry had subsided, Vorador spoke again.  “Before we begin in truth, however, I should make certain that *your* collar does not chafe overmuch.  T’would not do to choke you, now would it?  Tell me, Raziel -- are you experiencing any mental discomfort?” 

Raziel bit back another pained gasp--then, as the question registered, could not suppress a bark of laughter, his expression drawn into a agonized parody of humor.  Discomfort?  Terrorized, beaten, his head feeling as if it might truly crack in twain like a rotted fruit, and Vorador’s talons digging into already-injured flesh--and the elder wished to know whether he was *comfortable*?  He snarled at the creature that held him captive.  “Your mockery does you no credit.  You know full well what you have done--would *you* be experiencing discomfort, were you in my place?”  

The telekinetic bindings compressed his chest and arms, leaving him unable to do much more than shudder impotently at the elder’s touch--but his feet, dangling free of the ground, were still unencumbered.  He lashed out with one bare, dirtied foot, knowing how ineffectual the attack would be even before the blow landed.  But his anger and fear demanded an outlet, regardless of its outcome--or Vorador’s inevitable retribution.  The elder vampire might think of him as naught but a collared dog--but he would still bite while he could!

Kicking the ancient vampire was very much like kicking a stone wall. Vorador tilted his head slightly, and with a deceptively lazy gesture, caught Raziel’s ankle in one massive palm.  He’d forgotten, really, how very soft a fledgling’s skin could be, so tender without much accumulation of armor to stiffen it.  And those soft, flexing toes, the high arch of the foot and delicate edge of the nails.... “Mental, fledgling.  And if your physical pains register merely as discomfort, I have not adequately made *my* many points.”  Vorador indulged himself, stroking the back of his talon over the sole of Raziel’s foot, lightly to the achilles tendon.  One small cut there, and the fledgling would be incapable of walking for perhaps a week or more, and Vorador considered that notion.  “I have laid a geas upon you;  a collar, if you will.  If drawn too tight for too long, it could damage you, which I would avoid.”  The corner of Vorador’s mouth turned up, a cruel anticipation.  “Perhaps you can detect it... _now_?”

With an easy flick of magic, Vorador tugged at the spell he’d implanted so carefully in the fledgling’s mind over the last few days.

It was like being hit by lightning--Raziel’s mouth opened in a silent scream, eyes wide and blind as he felt *something* yank at the base of his very thoughts.  A connection that had been forged while he lay helpless opened, and for the first time he could feel the resonance of the elder’s thoughts, dark and angry, crushing him down as if he lay entombed at the base of a mountain, Vorador’s lingering wounds echoing in his own flesh.  He couldn’t think, nor move--all he could do was tremble within his bonds, shivering as pain layered upon pain.

It lasted but a moment--a terrible, eternal moment--and then the connection ceased, leaving him alone in his own flesh.  Raziel dangled limply within the elder’s telekinetic grip, panting in relief at the sudden lessening of his pain.    _Why?_  He asked the question twice before realizing he had not actually said anything aloud.  Tongue touching cracked lips, his voice hoarse and ragged, he said it again.

“ _W-why?_ ”

“Why, Raziel?”  Vorador echoed, sounding faintly surprised.  The test of the pain-bond had been quite satisfying, the channel fully formed and capable, and now Vorador set to tightening up the edges, smoothing over the surface, layering defences so that even Kain would require decades to dispel the deep-seated connection.  That young upstart had a great deal of raw power, but one acquired certain artifices, techniques, over millennia of unlife.  Kain was many things, but rarely subtle.  “Has your Sire not told you?  No, perhaps he has not.”  Thoughtfully, Vorador slid his palm to the back of Raziel’s knee.  The skin there, even dirtied, was like the ripple of silk in the air.  Vorador had always been partial to these most tender of places.  “You have developed a degree of power sufficient to raise fledglings of your own -- or you will, very soon.  And once you are proven, your Sire, I think, will have very little regard for me... nor armies such as I have raised for him in the past.  Shall I not shackle his little knight, before the attempt at checkmate?”   

Raziel wanted to claw the elder’s eyes out--to bite, to kick, to do *anything*--but his limbs were still strengthless and trembling in the aftermath of whatever Vorador had done to him.  “Th-that is why?  Because you fear that you will be supplanted?”  It made a certain kind of sense, though Raziel found it hard to fathom that a creature of such power could ever feel threatened by anything--even Kain.  He shivered, a bone-deep cold seeming to settle into his very bones.   _Kain_ \--all unwitting, he had become a weapon against his own Sire.  Would Kain ever be able to forgive such a betrayal?  “Is--is that why you ally yourself with the humans?  To help them hunt us down?”

Vorador hissed, an incendiary sound.  The humans, the damned and scurrying destroyers of his race and Janos’ -- ah, Janos!  His talons flexed hard on the back of Raziel’s thigh, a deep-bruising grip on the heavy muscle.  Perhaps he should hamstring the converted Sarafan, after all.  “Never speak of them to me,” Vorador snarled, “lest you wish to be deprived of your tongue.  Perhaps I will pluck it from your head now, unless...” so very terrifyingly mercurial, temper that veered haphazardly over the very borders of sanity, “...your Sire has instructed you in better uses for it?”  Vorador’s free hand cupped the line of Raziel’s jaw, his talons curving around the back of the fledgling’s head.  The pad of his thumb-talon lay over Raziel’s dusky lips.    

Shuddering, Raziel wisely remained silent under the cutting press of that talon, golden eyes fixed fearfully upon those heavy green features.  If this were his sire, he might have some inkling of what to do, how to appease his elder’s anger.  But Vorador was a creature alien to his experience;  as angry and changeable as the storms that blew from the sea, and just as deadly.  Not to mention apparently intent upon exacting bloody retribution--but  how was he to atone for sins he did not understand?

Ashamed of his own weakness, Raziel reached out, hoping against hope that Kain might hear his call.   _Kain!  Sire … please help me!_

The leathery pad of that thick talon nudged at his lips, oddly delicate for such a blunt and heavy instrument.  The silk of Vorador’s elaborately embroidered vestment was cool on the skin of Raziel’s chest -- just slightly rough, where the metallic threads scraped.  Even with Raziel held above the floor, Vorador had to bend his head to lay his own lips upon the fledgling’s finely trembling throat.  What a delectable degree of terror.... and such a lovely scent -- smoke and blood, yes, but also a finely layered strength, a groundwork for extraordinary ability.  There was a... quickening to that promise of power, a hint that perhaps recalled Faustus’ talent.  And yet, there was so much more than that.... Vorador’s tongue lapped a warm pressure over Raziel’s skin.

 _I wonder_ , Vorador Whispered, the feel of his mind like a landslide, issuing the only reply to Raziel’s desperate plea, _ if your Sire will still want you, once I have had you a few times._

The thought was beyond bearing--that this creature would lay hands upon him, defile and break him past all forebearance, until even his sire would have nothing to do with what was left ….   With a scream of purest rage, Raziel launched himself at his tormentor, fangs bared.  Black-nailed fingers lashed out to claw at that arrogant face, to gouge at the eyes and tear open the soft flesh of his enemy’s throat.  There was no finesse in his attack, no thought of consequences--only a primal need to hurt as he had been hurt, to teach this interloper that no creature would be allowed to trespass upon his sire’s domain!

Vorador’s dark laughter rumbled over Raziel’s skin as the elder vampire caught one of those flailing arms, and with casual ease, cleanly snapped the strong bones of Raziel’s forearm.  The crack was dull, the pain took an instant to follow -- bright, white-hot, almost enough to mask the sudden sensation of release as the remnants of the telekinetic bonds vanished.  Dragging the squalling fledgling by his broken arm, Vorador stalked towards the odd piece of inclined furniture centered in the room.  “Or shall I take your sibling, instead, Raziel?” Vorador queried, a light amusement in his tone as he hauled Raziel bodily up onto the velvet-padded stand, parrying another swipe of fledgling claws and catching that wrist.  Metal clacked -- the closing of a hardened steel manacle.  “He did wake before you, though -- I must admit, I would prefer to wait a few years.  It is so easy to permanently damage a fledgling that young.”  Vorador was oddly gentle as he captured Raziel’s broken arm and drew it likewise overhead, a palm in the center of Raziel’s chest to still his thrashings for a moment.  

The only wounds that Vorador took were scrapes across the plane of his cheek and neck, traces of black blood where claws had only briefly parted skin.  

Raziel stilled, barely registering as a second manacle was secured over his wrist, pinning his crippled arm.   _Sibling_?  One of his brothers was also being held captive?  Panting a little in commingled pain and fear, he forced himself to ask, “M-my brother--what have you done to him?”  Was it Zephon that Raziel had failed to save?  Or Rahab?  He did not think it would be Turel or Dumah … but then, all of his brothers would no doubt seem impossibly young to a vampire as ancient as this.  The world seemed to lurch a bit, relief and dismay whipsawing his focus as the combined effect of his injuries took their toll.  There was the relief that Vorador spoke of only one brother, and not several--which meant that he could still hope the others had escaped, and made their way to safety.  But far greater was his dismay at the thought of one of his youngest brethren at the mercy of this monster.  Even Zephon, nuisance that he was, did not deserve that!

“What have I done?  Much the same as I have to you, however -- “ Vorador bent his head, inhaling over the place on Raziel’s forearm where the dark marks of his talons were already beginning to blossom.  It was like bruising a peach, bringing deeper sweetness to the surface, more complexity of scent.  When Raziel ceased to struggle for a moment, Vorador lightened his restraining hand, letting his palm instead stroke lightly over the fledgling’s heaving chest.  Vorador could identify his own kind by the sound of that gasping alone, borne of buried instinct not yet overcome, a little too rapid for any mortal creature.  The ancient vampire found the dusky rise of one of Raziel’s nipples, and lingered there, the rough leather of his talons catching and teasing.  “--he wisely did not try my temper, while you have done little but.  I wonder if you will come to heel so eagerly?”  One hand still on Raziel’s chest, Vorador lifted the other, running the tip of his talon, where the leather was cased in a trace of sharp chitin, over the underside of his thumb.  The skin parted momentarily, letting seep a few drops of black blood, thick as honey and far more fragrant.     

Raziel could not prevent his instinctive flinch at that touch.  The press of the elder vampire’s power was too near, almost choking in its intensity, and nothing in it spoke of blood-kin, of safety, the way his sire’s touch did.  Instead those light touches felt like nothing so much as a latent threat, recalling the too-recent memory of pain.  He tried to draw away, only to bite back another abortive cry as a jagged spike of agony rewarded him for his efforts, bone grating upon bone in his broken arm.  

Then his head came up, golden eyes pinned in atavistic desire as the potent, distilled fragrance of the elder’s blood perfumed the air.  Raziel had tasted Vorador before, albeit briefly, and the Hunger coiling cold in his belly cared nothing for pride--it wanted more.  

Still, even that could not make him beg;  Kain’s training of his firstborn had been most … thorough.  The very thought of what his Sire might do if he saw his progeny willingly bending knee to another elder was enough to cut through the red haze of need and desperate hunger.  Eyes fixed upon that alluring wound, Raziel keened low in his throat, shuddering as instinct fought with his Sire’s conditioning.

“No?” murmured Vorador, watching the fledgling’s struggle, sulfur-gold gaze ancient and unfathomable.  “Not so hungry as to ask for it?  Or... perhaps you disdain the necessity of feeding?”  Depending on how much the fledgling recalled much of his knighthood, he likely did.  So damnably *righteous*, these Sarafan swine -- they frequently didn’t make good fledglings, and this one had been the most obedient dog of all.  Vorador found the nipple he had caressed before, and traced the blood there instead, slow and considering strokes like painting ink onto vellum.    

“I won’t …” The words escaped without him willing it, guttural and almost more growl than speech.  The cool-tacky touch of that talon upon his skin was an insidious taunt, reinforcing his helplessness--and worse, it brought the alluring bloodscent that much closer, so near that he could not help but scent it with each indrawn breath.  His lips drew back in a rictus grimace over clenched teeth as he battled the urge to lunge forward, to sink his fangs deep--

\--another stroke, and it was too much.  “No!”  Raziel lunged away, tearing at his bonds.  Agony spiked through his wrists, his shoulders, his shattered arm, and he welcomed it, lunging again and again with all the limits of his strength, feeling the broken bone separate, the muscles and tendon tear with each new attempt.   _No!  I  won’t--I won’t betray you!_  he cried, blindly reaching for a mind that did not answer.   _ Sire! _  If he had to tear his arm off to be free of this damnable torment, then so be it!

Vorador paused at that first muscular heave, momentarily taken aback.  There had been fledglings capable of resisting the dark press of his power, fledglings who fought him at first -- his noble Magnus among them.  But none, in the face of the potent entanglements of hunger and pleasure and pain, none had opposed him quite like  this .  

The way Raziel’s body thrashed, though, recalled to mind pleasures of a different sort.  Vorador would simply have to take pains to ensure that the little Sarafan survived the experience, a questionable assumption at present, the way he insisted on tearing himself apart.  “Will not *what*, fledgling?” Vorador hissed, pinning Raziel’s shoulder to the velvet padding to relieve the strain on that broken arm.  With the casual ease of long habit, he bit at his own wrist to draw a smear of blood to the surface, marking the joint between subdermal plates in order that a fledgling might find it more readily... and laid his limb upon Raziel’s lips.  “For I assure you... you can and you will, should it please me.”  

The press of that bloodied skin against his lips, the scent of the vitae waiting beneath that armored flesh, proved to be too much for Raziel to withstand.  Hunger roared to life, taking over, and between one moment and the next he had bared fangs and bit down savagely upon the proffered wrist.  Black blood, a velvet liqueur upon the tongue, trickled over his lips, down his throat as he suckled ravenously, pulling it in with desperate and greedy swallows.  The power in that blood did not prickle over his skin, or warm his insides;  it was not so tame as all that.  It felt instead as if a great fire had been lit in his very bones, white splashes of light bursting behind half-closed eyes as it seared through his veins, his fledgling vampiric struggling to make use of the bounty it had received.  All other sensation was lost in the flood, his wounds sealing over unnoticed as he continued to drink, his universe narrowed to the font of unliving strength pressed against his lips. 

Vorador watched the fledgling’s throat work desperately.  The twin fangs in his hide were a intensely familiar sensation, another source of old, unwanted memories.  How many thousands of times....?  After a moment, as a faint flush began to spread over Raziel’s skin, Vorador reached up and, with his grip and a small flex of telekinesis, pulled the fledgling’s arm back into its proper position, realigning the bones there, holding the break until the setting began.  Lost in the sensation of feeding, Raziel appeared not to notice any of the handling.  But that wasn’t right, was it?  It wasn’t the point.  The little Sarafan should feel *everything.*

When he was substantially certain that Raziel could bear Vorador’s pleasure, he fixed his grip around the fledgling’s jaws and pried that suckling mouth away.  Even in little more than a minute, the fledgling’s visible wounds seemed much improved, though he still was not whole.  “Better, pup?” Vorador rumbled, a purr that vibrated in the bones.  “You had best be, for I intend to enjoy my retribution... at length.”   The stand was short, supporting the heavy-muscled curve of Raziel’s buttocks but leaving his legs free, and now Vorador caught one of the fledgling’s knees as he moved around the table to place himself at its foot.  

Raziel struggled briefly as the flow of blood ceased, his grip upon his prey forcibly broken--then lay dazed and momentarily quiescent, golden eyes blinking upwards without seeming to see anything.  The pain was not entirely gone, but it was so much less than it had been that the relief was a weightless thing, a moment of heavenly peace.  

That moment, however, did not last.  Stirring as he felt broad talons wrap around one knee, Raziel rolled his head to one side, frowning as Vorador’s words filtered through the haze left behind by his sated hunger.  “... retribution?”  His mouth shaped the word silently before he said it again, this time out loud.  Oh.  Yes.  There was some unnamed sin for which he must atone …. he struggled to remember what it was, but his mind seemed oddly slow, his thoughts caught in a neap tide, the question spinning in slow, aimless circles around no answer at all.

Vorador pushed the fledgling’s knee up, found a wider manacle from the selection the stand offered, and clipped it around Raziel’s ankle.  The short chain clanked as he treated the other leg likewise.  His rumble was a dangerous thing, like the sound of earth sliding away into the abyss.  “Would you like that, fledgling?  Shall I name them all, while I move in you?” he growled, hands on Raziel’s thighs, surveying his captive.  Quite lovely, like the rest of the little Sarafan -- smoothly corded loins, high-white shading to the most delicate dusky rose at the crease of the groin.  Raziel had already experienced his first evolution and his skin had shed even its follicles, rendering it as delicate as thistle-down though far more durable.  Soft, hooded cock, quite thick, with a pleasant weight as Vorador ran the back of one talon up the underside.  Full, well shaped testes, crinkly-soft... and the tiny puckered ring, tight as if the fledgling had never been touched.  Vorador lightly pressed the heavy back of one knuckle there thoughtfully, considering.  

At that touch, Raziel stiffened, the muscles of his stomach tightening in mute apprehension, his hands fisting above his head.  Surely he did not intend … Raziel craned his neck, seeking out some reassurance that the elder vampire did not truly mean to use him in such a fashion.  It was--not unthinkable, and Raziel was certainly no blushing human virgin, but … his eyes were wide in apprehension as he took in the elder’s size, all of which was muscle layered upon muscle.  Vorador overtopped even Turel and Dumah by more than a head, to say nothing of Kain, and was wide-shouldered and massive besides, with none of his Sire’s pantherlike build.  How was … surely it was impossible they could even fit together!  

But perhaps that was what the elder had meant by ‘retribution’--did he intend to take his revenge by tearing Raziel open from the inside with those talons, or other instruments of torture?  The thought was enough to make him jerk at his bonds, seeking in vain for some point of weakness, some avenue of escape.

“I--if you must name them, perhaps you should do so without distraction,” Raziel said, knowing even as he did so that his sally was a feeble thing indeed.  “I assure you, I am quite willing to listen ....”

That caused Vorador to glance up.  He leaned an elbow atop Raziel’s knee, talon-tips brushing the silken length of the fledgling’s thigh.  “I cannot recall the last time I was so torn between laughter and rage,” said the ancient, tapping a chitinous fingertip on his chin, as if sincerely contemplating those two options.  “Though you may not wish to publicize the cleverness of your tongue quite so broadly, lest I chose to sample its other charms.”  Vorador reached out, summoned a small amethyst pot to hand with that same strange shocking twist of magery which Kain utilized with such frequency, and then an odd, three-fingered glove of sorts.  He set the former near Raziel’s foot, just outside kicking range, drew on the thin leather gauntlet, and then dipped a covered talon in the translucent stone bowl.  “And that,” the ancient vampire continued conversationally, “would require the plucking out of your eyeteeth.”  

Vorador’s hand moved, a cool slickness spread down Raziel’s perineum.

Raziel swallowed convulsively at the threat, tongue flickering over his fangs.  He shivered a little, a thrill of fearful sensation scurrying over his skin at that cool touch upon his most vulnerable flesh.  “What … do you want me to do, then?”  If he spoke, he angered the elder, if he remained silent, repayment would be exacted upon his flesh regardless.  Was there no way to appease this creature?

His toes curled inward, pushing against the table, but he did not try to kick.  The cold metal he could feel about his ankles was evidence enough of how futile such an attempt would be.

The tip of Vorador’s talon was a tickling, teasing pressure, a ghost of perception.  The elder vampire looked at his captive strangely, an ocean of history heaving behind his gaze.  “Why, little knight,” purred Vorador, savoring every word, “you can  _suffer_. ”  

Vorador twisted his hand, thrusting in, shockingly sudden.  The little ring of muscle opened for the purpose-crafted gauntlet, taking it, so reluctantly.  The ancient watched, enjoying every tremble, every flinch.  How flawlessly tight -- the fledgling had surely been virgin here, before his ascendancy, and even now healed always to an untouched tautness.  The stretch, the give, seeming too unyielding to take even the tip of a talon and then just stretching for more, tight as the clasp of a palm, clinging reluctantly each time Vorador withdrew a little.  There wasn’t enough oil, not for this callous use, not as tight as Raziel was.  Vorador stroked deep a few more times, then pulled out with terrible indifference.  He dipped his talon into the lubricant and, catching the fledgling’s hip to still him, forced his thick digit back inside.  The leather-covered finger was as broad at the base as any man’s organ, far harder, flexing cruelly inside the tight sheath of Raziel’s flesh.    

Raziel hissed, the chains around his wrists clanking as he twisted his hands, fingers curling into impotent claws.  The elder’s talons were nothing like fingers;  they were unyielding, hard-edged even sheathed by the leather, forcing his body open.  He could feel his flesh burning, internal muscles fighting and being forced to give way with each slow, deliberate thrust, and there was nothing he could do to stop that relentless invasion, his feet pushing down against the padding, opened thighs trembling.  

The only thing left to him was to refuse to give this creature the satisfaction of hearing him cry out--and so he stoppered the shameful whimpers within his throat before they could escape.  The talon sank deep within him again, opening him to the root--he caught another cry, keeping it safe behind clenched teeth.  It hurt, it was too deep, too fast--but there was nothing else he could do but endure, and pray that the elder did not decide to unsheathe the cutting edges he could feel underneath that thin barrier of hide.

There came a reprieve, an abrupt surcease to the invasion as Vorador withdrew.  “One ought be enough, don’t you agree, Raziel?” the ancient rumbled, inspecting the traces of blood on his glove and the slight gape of the twitching little ring of muscle.  Even now, after such harsh penetration, it tried to pull closed.  Such a stretching was not sufficient, not by far, but it was all that Vorador was minded to provide.  He peeled the glove from his talons, flexing them.  Then slowly, deliberately, he unwound the broad belt he wore.  Discarding the gold-embroidered length of silk to the ground, the elder began to unlace his breeches.  “That is, after all, infinitely more benignancy than you offered your game.  I wonder -- do you recall the long stakes?” 

The front placket came loose, and Vorador drew himself from the tight confines of the leather.  Lazily, he closed his talons around his cock, those sharp tips ghosting over hard-raised ridges, overlapping scales, flesh flushed green-black. “There is a certain irony there, come to think of it,” Vorador admitted, reaching out to dip two talons into the oil, and then returning to stroke slowly up his length, lingering at the small, flexing spines which ringed the head.  He was not entirely hard, not yet -- but he filled rapidly.  

Raziel couldn’t seem to stop panting, short gasping breaths rasping at his throat as that invading talon withdrew, and the elder began to reveal himself.  The heavy, green-fleshed cock was like nothing Raziel had seen before;  intimidating in its size, but even more in the alien shape of it.  It was not smooth, there seemed to be odd shadows along the surface, as if there were … scales?  Or ridges of some kind?  And those shadows deepened as the elder’s erection rose, as if the surface was changing as well, the protrusions becoming more prominent.  Raziel wanted to look away, but could not make himself do so--and the table’s design ensured that he had a quite clear view of his tormentor, even so.

“I don’t … I don’t know what you mean,” he gasped, shuddering in reaction and growing dread.  “Please--please don’t ….”  The humiliation of his position, to be reduced to begging like this … Raziel was suddenly glad his sire wasn’t here to witness his shame.

“Do you not?” Vorador said, his tone a stygian rumble.  He growled softly as he passed the pad of his thumb-talon over the head of his organ, circling there, teasing.  He paused a moment, reached for more oil.  Precome was a further slickness over the tip of him, and the elder vampire stroked the commingled fluids down, lavishing special attention on the pattern of calloused ridges that embellished the upper surface of his organ, and the small raised plates along the sides and near the base.  “Perhaps you don’t, if you believe that I will afford you clemency.”  

The stand was nearly waist-high to Vorador, but even still, when the elder pressed closer between Raziel’s spread thighs, when he leaned over the table, he was so broadly muscular that he seemed to loom, to block the dim light.  His cloak fell open, like a mantle over the fledgling;  red and plain from the back, the underside was black and subtly pattered like feathers.  Vorador’s cock was a slick, textured warmth against the crease of Raziel’s groin, the hollow of his belly.  “I do enjoy those pleas, however.  Pray, continue -- call out for mercy.  You will have little opportunity afterward, when you are broken open like a whore, when you are stretched so wide that you will hardly feel it when your Sire mounts you.”  

Raziel met that gaze, ancient and terrifyingly amused.  The heavy planes of Vorador’s face were intent and as immutable as those of an ancient stone idol--and just as unlikely to dispense mercy, as Raziel now knew.

He did not think about that heavy cock rubbing against his taut and shivering skin, ridges catching and sliding over his shrinking flesh.  Did not think about the size of the talons braced to either side of him, or the fangs hidden behind those lips.  Did not think of the strength in the form braced over him, caging him with immortal muscle and bone and centuries worth of unadulterated, distilled vampiric power.  Did not--would not--think of the pain that awaited him.

Instead, holding that gaze, he said nothing--but deliberately bared his fangs, lips peeling back in a silent snarl of defiance.   
  
Vorador tilted his head, old golden glare laying upon Raziel like a weight, amusement fading for something darker, more contemplative, more evaluative.  The elder lifted a hand, great talons spread... and lightly, with great care, stroked a stray lock of hair back from Raziel’s snarling visage.  If he’d possessed three with this kind of fire -- even one -- would history have eroded another course?  Janos would chide him for the thought, would explain again the inviolate nature of the timestream, always so patient.  Would have.  Would have explained.  

He still forgot, sometimes.

“A shame, child,” Vorador murmured, turning his attention to more immediate concerns, fixing his precarious mind upon the present, “about your nature -- and your crimes.”  Rearing back, Vorador took himself in hand once more.  The head of his cock was too thick to be proportionate, like a clenched fist.  He let it stroke lightly over the fledgling’s soft groin, slick over Raziel’s balls, pressing up beneath them, slipping to the center of the little, stretched hole.  He let the blunt tip of his organ nudge there, pure threat, making the muscle twitch and tense, the arch of those white thighs tremble.  Such a heady rush, a delight to break open a fledgling for the first time.  Vorador permitted himself a tiny movement, a little more pressure and then a slight relaxing, savoring each sensation as the opening began to part for him, caught, resisted.  And the sight of it -- flawless white skin wrapped so taut and managing only the very tip of him, still so much more to take... oh, so very exquisite.  Vorador pushed again, harder.

Raziel’s snarl shaded into a grimace, fear rising as he felt that hard crown of flesh push insistently at the too-small opening.  He set his back teeth--he would *not* give this creature the satisfaction of the fearful whimpers that wished to escape!--as his feet pushed against the table, trying to shift away from that unwanted intruder.  But it was of little use--the chains held him fast, and that thick member pushed again, pushed harder--tearing its way past the entrance of his body, splitting him open.  There was no pleasure to be found in this, not even for a vampire;  the invasion was brutal, inexorable, and he could feel delicate flesh split and bleed even as the elder shifted and gave another slow thrust, forcing more of that armored member within.  Squeezing his eyes shut as he panted through the pain, Raziel turned his face away, unwilling to allow Vorador to see what he had wrought.

At the thickest part of Vorador’s cockhead, the grip around him was like a vice, unbelievably tight.  The clasp might have approached the point of discomfort, were it not also pleasurable beyond comparison.  And the sight of it -- watching his black-green organ enter between the palentine white curves of Raziel’s ass, seeing the little reddened hole just swallowing it... the head slipped abruptly inside, Vorador shuddering as those small, flexing spines around the corona were encased in a wet velvet grasp.  The fledgling twitched and flinched abortively, each act of resistance a suckling ripple around the massive cockhead.

With casual cruelty, Vorador closed his edged palms over the fledgling’s hips, stilling him, and made as if to withdraw, admiring the way the ring of Raziel’s ass bulged.   _I think I will pull out of you before my release, little knight,_ Vorador Whispered, the press of his ancient mind its own invasion.  _It will tear you apart.  Before the bleeding stops, I will treat the wound with blessed water.  And when you heal, it will be like this for years, gaping like a begging mouth._  The small spines and sheer thickness of Vorador’s organ ensured that.  With a low landslide of a laugh, Vorador reversed, pushing more of his member in, hissing through his teeth in pleasure as the first of the slicked little ridges sank inside.   _ I will, however, amuse myself for some time before then.... _

Raziel could no longer hope to control his reaction to what was being done to him, his entire body wracked with convulsive shudders.  His limbs shook like those of a palsied human, his skin cold and shrinking away from that bladed touch.  He could feel every inch of that massive cock, every ridge, every prickling spine as it sank deep, forcing him open until he could feel the deep tearing of internal muscles as they flexed and clamped down, trying in vain to expel the invader, only to be ripped open beyond their capacity.  His entire body was taut with agony, from fisted hands to arched and scrabbling feet, every muscle drawn tight as if he lay upon a rack, unable even to breathe save for a keening whine that escaped, all unknowing, from a closed throat.

It was agonizing, torturous--and Raziel found himself wishing that he had been left behind to the fire.  Surely being burned to ash would have been an easier death than this--and most certainly a swifter one!  It was impossible to summon up the concentration to Whisper, but still he could not help himself from begging, even silently, the name a mantra in the midst of his anguish.   _Kain … Kain … master, please … Kain …_    He was no longer sure if his pleas were for salvation or for an end to the pain--but in this moment, he would have welcomed either.

So *tight.*   The rippling clench, that steel-textured yielding -- every iota of movement was glorious, even holding still was bliss.  That high fractured-metal whine of anguish interrupted Vorador’s enjoyment... but only by a fraction.  With every jolting little advance, Raziel’s hips bucked, muscles trembling taut, as if the fledgling’s ass were swallowing convulsively around him.  Vorador gasped aloud as a particularly intense spasm wracked the ex-Sarafan’s body.    

One last slow, slick slide, and Vorador pressed home into Raziel, the firm curve of the younger vampire’s buttocks pressed against his loins, the full stretch of Vorador’s shaft a subtle bulge up the center of Raziel’s flat belly, dominion to the core.  Vorador exhaled hard, keeping still, endeavoring to firm his self-control -- it had been centuries, millennia perhaps, since it had been tested quite so desperately.  But this little knight, his struggles, the way the fledgling moved and fought.... “Exquisite,” the ancient murmured.  He released Raziel’s hip with one hand, and dragged the back of one long talon lightly up the length of his own impaled cock, stroking himself through the velvet-constricting sheath of Raziel’s body.      

At that touch, Raziel cried out, and there was nothing of pleasure in it.  It felt as if he were impaled by one of the Sarafan’s long-bladed, barbed spears--but one that was not pulled out, but twisted, pummeling and ripping apart his insides with every shift, every push.  Pale vampiric skin tore, healed, and tore again as he jerked helplessly, shuddering and pulling against the manacles that held him fast.  

Blood-tinged tears of agony escaped, tinging ashen skin pink before disappearing into tangled strands of dark hair.  But Raziel was beyond shame at this evidence of his weakness, his world narrowed down only to his suffering and the necessity of enduring it.  “...tell me, Sire, p-please …” The words were barely a whisper, an echo of the drumbeat inside his mind.   _Kain, Kain, please …. make it stop, make it end, tell me what I did wrong …._

Something in that breath of sound, the gasped whisper, gave Vorador pause, though he continued to stroke along his own buried length.   _Sire._  For more than a century, he’d not heard that word from a fledgling’s lips, not in any language.  The very sound of it recalled old pleasures.  Vorador found himself wanting to hear it again.  He returned his grip to the fledgling’s hips, gave a hard rolling thrust into Raziel’s resistance, to seat himself even more deeply.  The sensations made him gasp, tore another short scream from the little knight’s lips.  “Tell you?  Tell you what, fledgling?” Vorador rumbled, stilling once more -- the young vampire’s muscular full-body spasms made this, just holding his place, a white-hot ecstasy.  He could remain impaled here for hours.  Perhaps he would.    

Each new spasm was accompanied by a jolt of agony, Raziel’s own body working against him as vampiric healing did its best to heal bruised and wounded internal tissues, only to have them torn anew.  Vorador’s thrust battered against already tender walls, the ridges catching and pulling with each new movement.  It ensured that Raziel could not speak--the tiny amounts of air he managed to pull in promptly exhausted by his own involuntary panting cries.

Finally Vorador stilled, giving him a brief respite, if not a merciful one.   Raziel swallowed, his throat and tongue dry;  he could feel the burn of unhealed wounds, the loose shifting that heralded internal bleeding.  What blood he had was rapidly being consumed, leaving little left for anything beyond bare survival.  A vampire could not die from blood loss;  but right now that was hardly a comfort.

“... please … no more.  Tell me why … s-sire, tell me what I m-must do, how to atone ….”   Was he beyond forgiveness?  He had failed Kain, he knew … was this agony his punishment?

Vorador snorted harshly, turned his palm to the buried tip of his organ.  He could feel his own cockhead through the muscles of Raziel’s belly, like the bulge of an aneurysm, like the head of a spear.  There was more slickness than there should have been as Vorador stroked himself, but the seal of the little ring of muscle around his base was so trembling-tight that no trace of blood escaped.  “There is no atonement, little knight.  Not for those you and your brethren slew -- was it hundreds?  A thousand?  Elder to newest squalling fledgling, all alike when driven down onto long stakes to burn in the sun....” eyes jellied by the holy water the Sarafan splashed to ‘sanctify’ their kills, fangs harvested for market trinkets -- Vorador started as Raziel cried out again.  The ancient glanced down, found that one hand had left rapidly-purpling bruises over the fledgling’s belly, and that the other had carved down to the bone of Raziel’s hip.  Damnation.  This would be over far too soon, if he kept forgetting himself like this.  Vorador braced his talons deliberately on the velvet, instead.   

Raziel’s head shook blindly, tossing back and forth on the padded surface of the table, eyes squeezed shut.  “D-don’t understand …” The words escaped one by one, interspersed with sobbing breaths that did little but keep him from screaming.  “... no others, none, just us, a-always … “  It didn’t make sense--none of it did.  He wouldn’t kill his brothers!  Set them out to burn, watch them scream and twist in agony as the sun rose … no!  “... only ones.  Kuh--keep them safe, keep them hidden, f-failed … forgive me, Sire!”

“You --” Vorador froze, went still in the tense, snake-strike way that only the undead truly could.  It took him a moment to understand that he hurt the fledgling worse like that, as Raziel’s body continued to jerk and writhe against him.  He forced a slow relaxation, letting his hips move a little with the fledgling’s spasms.  “Only ones.  You do not...” the clasp of the whelp’s body was no less sweetly blissful, his own cock was no less rampant, yet a hard lump had seemed to form in the pit of Vorador’s belly.  He could not have understood the fledgling’s broken babbling correctly.  “What... Raziel.  What do you remember of your past?  Before you awoke to the night?”  All neonates recalled at least a fragment of their histories.  All of them did.   

“B-before?”  Was this a test?  Kain had oft asked that, long ago.  And so Raziel told the truth, as he always did.  

“Before … there was the dark, and the--the cold.  S-so cold.  And then there was Kain.”  Always Kain, alpha and omega;  the blood and power and strength from which they all had sprung.  Kain had told him once that he had been human, and while he could not deny his Sire’s words, it was … difficult to believe.  How could he possibly ever have been kin to the humans, ignorant mayfly creatures that they were?  “...only … K-Kain …”

...Impossible. A fledgling arose from the bones of its mortal coil, yes, but never from its ashes.  And for all Kain’s strange and subtle differences, there was only a single means of drawing a human into the night, and it did not entirely obliterate past recollection.  Yet there was no mealy undercurrent to the fledgling’s scent, no construction of Raziel’s words that might be twisted into a half-verity.  But if Raziel did not lie... then Vorador was inflicting his punishment on a creature utterly blameless, incapable of comprehending his fault, as soft and avid and instinct-driven as any of Vorador’s beloved progeny.  .  

It... could not be true.   

Kain must have placed some mental blockage, some fine net to keep tarnish-scaled memories from leaping to the surface.  Vordor had not sensed such a device when he placed his own geas on the little knight, but then, he had not been looking.  Broad, bloody palm pressed to Raziel’s pink-streaked cheek, Vorador pinned the fledgling’s head to the velvet, exposing the platinum arch of that throat.   _Dwell upon that oldest memory for me, child,_ Vorador Whispered, the press of his mind tense as he bared long, bestial fangs.  The movement as the elder leaned closer jolted his cock, clasped tight within Raziel’s body.  And then Vorador bit down.


	6. Chapter 6

Raziel shuddered underneath that inexorable grip, a voiceless scream caught in his throat as if pinned there by the elder’s fangs. His mind, fractured by pain and hunger, offered no defense, currents of memory unspooling in a tangled web ...

 _//... his Sire’s face, intent and pale in the predawn light. ‘--make certain your brethren take shelter in the cellars here. Do you understand?’ ..._

 _… Rahab, new-made and already curious, turning over bits of broken stone tablet--pale, clever fingers tracing over the ancient characters, fitting them together first one way, then another. Eyes as blue as sapphires were narrowed in concentration, only to lift at his brother’s call ..._

 _… brawling with his brethren, testing strength against strength. Dust and pain and the hot taste of Turel’s blood in his mouth, the ache of bloodied wounds nothing against his victory, the bone-deep satisfaction in proving himself against all challengers …_

 _… discontent and anger at the advent of another, a brother with which he must share his kills, his few possessions, even his Sire’s attentions. He did not like this soft creature that snarled at him with needle-sharp fangs, eyes as golden-bright as his own. ‘Turel’, said his Sire, voice darkly amused. ‘His name is Turel …’ //_

Deeper, past decades of memory, the scattered shards of the past …

 _//--a crumbling manse bounded by mossy walls, the nearby village fertile hunting for hungry bellies--_

 _\--a lightning-struck tree, clawing black against a lambent silver moon--_

 _\--the glory of the hunt, pounding feet and hot blood over the tongue, prey struggling for their last bit of life--_

 _\--his Sire’s fury, sharp-planed features drawn into a cold rage, fear and shame and talons sliding into his flesh--_

 _\--fear, terror, the hunters becoming hunted, cornered by fire and seared by water. Then Kain was there, tearing open the steel-clad humans, blood upon the ground and on his tongue, air ringing with the sound of screams ...//_

Deeper, until even memory fragmented into a morass of instinct and confusion. Only a single, surprisingly clear image: _… cold and hunger, silver hair in the darkness down a broad armored back, bare feet picking through mud and brambles to follow his Maker, always follow …_

And then … nothing. No human remembrances of breath and life, no remnants of righteous fury. Nothing beyond an endless, blue-tinged darkness, a cold so deep it numbed the very bones, aching and omnipresent, and beyond that, faintly … a sound? It rumbled, distorted and wavering, like nothing so much as stone grating upon stone, as if the very earth itself strained to speak ….

It was like finding a sinkhole in a puddle, an unexpected depth both infinite and infinitely cold. The faint susurration of sound could have been endless desert winds down lifeless canyons, could have been the subaudible roar of a voice warped beyond comprehension. It ate at the corners of sanity, and beyond it was the void.

Withdrawing took a moment too long, like the surfacing of a swimmer gone too deep. Vorador gasped as he drew free his long fangs, feeling absurdly as if he had escaped... something. His skin felt cold around him, algid -- a fading fantasy perhaps, but for an anxiety-split moment so very intensely real....

What had Vorador witnessed? How had Kain... the young upstart could not have... The twin wounds at the fledgling’s bared throat bled only a trickle. They also did not close. Vorador swallowed, licking the last traces of Raziel’s too-thin vitae from his eyeteeth, aligning his focus to the present. “Easy, fledgling. Not so tense -- easy...” Vorador murmured, his voice taking on a deep thrumming note that Raziel had never heard from this elder. With slow, careful movements, Vorador unhooked the chains from the manacles at the fledgling’s ankles and guided Raziel’s heels around the elder’s heavy-boned hips, stroking gently as the long-confined muscles spasmed and cramped under his hand. “There, be calm. Slow breaths...” Vorador bit into his wrist and pressed the smear of thick black blood over the fledgling’s deeply-rent hip, then the punctures at Raziel’s arched throat. Finally, with the tip of a sharp talon, Vorador drew a few drops of honey-thick blood, marking the juncture between armoring plates, just above the ridge of his collar bone. Cradling the back of Raziel’s skull, Vorador bent his heavy-horned head.

Every movement was agony, and Raziel felt as if he had no strength left--he was drained dry, a cored out husk that would crumple in upon itself and blow away at the slightest touch ….

… and then he caught the scent of blood.

Hunger roared to life, and the pain ceased to matter. His head snapped upwards, his entire body arching upwards in a convulsive lunge as he sank fangs into the proffered throat, biting deep with desperate ferocity. Chance rather than skill led him to the correct spot on the first try, and he convulsed again, this time in ecstatic anguish as the velvet-dark blood rolled over his tongue. Power seared through his veins, burned in the pit of his stomach as his body took that strength, took it and used it only to take even more. Bruises faded, the rents made by talons sealing over under the impetus of that borrowed power, a thousand minor cramps and aches fading into nothingness. The deeper injuries were more resistant, however, requiring more strength than Raziel’s fledgling abilities could provide, even with such vitae to draw upon. Slowly, achingly slowly, internal tissues began to knit, torn fibers drawing together … but Raziel did not have the resiliency of an elder, and the repairs were slow.

Golden eyes blinked, some semblance of sense returning as the Hunger subsided; but Raziel never stopped drinking, greedily pulling as much as he could from the elder before it was taken away. He did not know Vorador’s game, but he knew better than to believe that his torment was over. All he could do was take whatever he could, whenever he could, and hope to survive.

Vorador stilled a shudder as the fledgling healed around him, seeming -- impossibly -- to tighten still further. Compared to that, the fangs in his throat were a negligible discomfort, the fledgling’s rapid swallowing a trifling drain. Every messy gulp or two, Raziel had to rock the wound back open, to split again an artery that threatened to seal itself around his very fangs. Vorador held himself quite still.

A handful of minutes passed like that, the fledgling drawing desperately for every mouthful. Vorador’s heavy press of latent power lapped at the edges of Raziel’s far more limited aura, sensing its changing contours and qualities. At last, Vorador nosed at the skin near Raziel’s ear, like shark’s hide nudging silk. “You will soon be perilously close to bloating yourself sick, youngling.” Vorador murmured, that rumble-thrum still in his voice, now coupled with an unplaceable kind of amusement. The elder’s voice vibrated strangely through the fangs buried in his throat.

As if to prove him wrong, Raziel continued to drink for a few moments more. But with each mouthful, it became harder and harder to swallow, until finally he was forced to release his bite, unable to imbibe any more. Vorador’s honey-thick blood settled heavily in his stomach like a banked fire, warming his flesh into the illusion of life, if not health. Utterly sated, Raziel licked his lips, letting his head thump back onto the surface of the table.

Vorador shifted minutely, looking down at his captive. It was difficult for Raziel to meet that fractured, inhuman golden gaze, but some remnant shred of pride forced his eyes up. He expected to see contempt, or anger--perhaps even a dark kind of satisfaction in that ancient gaze. Instead he saw … something else. Something he didn’t understand.

The elder’s attention was sharper now. Vorador’s lazy and jaded mask of cruelty had eased into something more... evaluative, perhaps. Vorador lifted a heavy hand, hesitated, and deliberately curled his talons under. With the smooth backs of his knuckles, he stroked from Raziel’s chin to his collar, turning the fledgling’s head a little, passing over the place he had bitten. There were still marks there, small reddened pocks, but they faded visibly. Vorador continued to the fledgling’s overstrained shoulders, the scrape of his talons a cool roughness against blood-warmed skin. “Calm, fledgling. Your own tension impedes your recovery, in moments such as these.” He hesitated over the place his own hands had broken, at Raziel’s forearm -- the flesh there was swollen and flushed, the bone still knitting. “I shall unbind your hands now, Raziel,” Vorador rumbled abruptly. “Struggle, and you can be just as quickly fettered once more.”

Shivering a little under that touch, Raziel did not know what to make of the elder vampire’s mercurial change of mood. Was this sudden consideration simply another part of Vorador’s sadistic game? What had changed? Still, he did as Vorador commanded, as best he could--and if his stillness was more akin to that of trapped prey than willing obedience, the result was the same.

Those massive talons reached upward, releasing first one manacle, then the other with a surprisingly deft touch. Raziel bit back an undignified cry as overstretched limbs were released, the wrists ringed with red where the chains had bit into skin and then healed.

Tongue flickering nervously over dry lips, he dared to ask, “...r--recovery?”

Vorador captured Raziel’s unbroken forearm, drawing the numb limb to him for inspection. “Your healing,” the elder clarified, and ran his tongue slowly up the underside of Raziel’s wrist, lapping the fresh blood away with broad strokes, rotating Raziel’s wrist for further attention between his words. There was perhaps a little resistance, but the fledgling did not panic, as Vorador half-expected. A thrill it was indeed to discover that the whelp’s fang-baring audacity was matched by equally impressive steadfastness. “By your fourth or fifth state of change, you will close wounds equally well under all conditions, whether you are resting or striving in aeric battle. Until then --” Vorador laid Raziel’s arm beside him, then reached for the other, his handling careful. The fledgling’s blood was a spiced spark in his mouth, a surprisingly vivid trace of the conflagration into which this strength would someday grow. “-- warmth and mindful relaxation both will speed your recovery.”

“I--” Raziel’s face was a study in wary confusion as he struggled with questions he dared not ask. To question an elder’s intentions, especially while still pinned in more ways than one by said elder, was to risk receiving answers carved into one’s flesh. His own body was testament to that fact, the impossibly broad width of Vorador’s cock still buried deep within him, pressing hard against tender flesh. But … he did not know what to make of this sudden consideration.

A traitorous thrill shivered down skin recently sensitized by pain as he watched Vorador’s tongue lap at his wrist, laving away all trace of his wounds. “... I d-don’t understand.” The elder vampire’s mercy seemed just as incomprehensible as his earlier anger had been.

“Hn. I trust it is not the concept of ‘warmth’ which so stymies you.” Vorador laid Raziel’s other hand down, braced his own talons on the padded stand once more. The fledgling’s faint shiver, the way his legs flexed where they hooked over Vorador’s hips, his hastily-concealed flinch as Vorador shifted subtly -- divine. It had been... seventy years now? Yes, seventy years since the last of Vorador’s coven beneath the Blue Lady of Meridian were slain, and still longer since Vorador’d had close contact with those few who had survived the purges and Kain both. The fledgling was a potent, and tempting, distraction. That, coupled with recent revelations, presented Vorador with a quandary. Another movement, very small, served to convince the elder that withdrawing now would have... unfortunate consequences. And the possibility of the matter resolving of its own accord was, Vorador was forced to concede, slim indeed.

Raziel’s newly-freed hands flexed, rising instinctively to clutch at those steel-cabled arms as Vorador shifted. Pale fingers dug into silk-covered, unyielding skin, clinging in support and mute resistance both--then were just as quickly snatched away as Raziel realized what he had done, fearing that the elder vampire would take exception. He shifted his hips minutely, trying cautiously to find a better position with which to endure Vorador’s invasion of his body--only to choke back a strangled gasp as that great cock shifted within, sending a frisson of sensation through him that refused to be identified. Not quite pain, but not pleasure either, it was a deep-seated pressure, an alien feeling that he could not name. It did not subside, but remained, as did the feeling of being so thoroughly invaded, his legs tightening where they were held apart by the elder’s hips. He wanted that invading member gone, so that he might heal and be whole again--but he could not help but fear what would happen if he made such a request. Vorador had already threatened to tear him open once; perhaps he was only waiting for Raziel to heal completely before making good upon that threat.

Vorador rumbled a short note of pique. He straightened slightly, brought his talons to the embroidered cuff of his shirt, the tips of his talons finely dexterous as he loosed the buttons and, with neatly precise movements, turned back the sleeve to his elbow. He did the same with the other, and then recaptured one of Raziel’s wrists, returning it to its place on his forearm.

Vorador’s skin was subtly scaled, rough in places, sculpted over a cordage of muscles like the great ropes which moored warships. Vorador lowered his head slightly, his breath coiling over Raziel’s throat. “I will draw out of you -- enough to apply more oil.” The elder considered a moment, eyes slitted. The fledgling’s body was warm, a rippling velvet grasp, pure pleasure. But not slicked enough, not for more potent use. “Have you been taught to press out, against this?”

“T-taught?” Raziel asked hesitantly. His fingers tightened on those arms but made no impression, as if they had been carved of solid marble. The alien texture of the elder’s skin was intimidating, and fascinating--was this what his Sire would become as the ages passed? Or were the fine-grained scales something unique to this creature only? He had never before encountered a creature so unfathomably old …. “Not … not for something like this.”

Which was perhaps the understatement of the century; Kain had taken his pleasure of Raziel often enough, but even the harshest discipline he had endured had not entailed anything quite like this. If his Sire were a hooded serpent, fanged and deadly, then Vorador was an ancient dragon--and nothing Raziel had learned to better serve his Sire was likely to matter.

The fledgling’s palms were a silken drag, rougher than the material of Vorador’s shirt but more giving, alive with the warmth of stolen blood. “It is the same, in principle.” Vorador’s voice was a hypnotic rumble. “A pressure in your upper belly, down the length of your spine, squeezing downward --” the elder moved, only a little, a flexing of his stony hips. He stilled, though, at the hiss of discomfort, the flinch as Raziel’s calves tightened on him.

Vorador moved slowly to place his palm on Raziel’s stomach, just below the bones of the sternum. The side of his hand brushed the bulge that marked the tip of his deeply-impaled cock. “Begin here. Tense, leaving all else lax. Now lower...” Vorador moved again, more firmly, withdrawing by fractions. The raised ridges over the upper side of his cock began to slip free, like embossed and rigid pearls. The smeared blood of prior wounding was invisible on the green-black, corded flesh of that invading member.

His face tightened in an agonized grimace as Raziel did his best to follow the elder vampire’s command. Kain had taught him something like it, of course--a flexing of purely internal muscles, pushing downward in order to open himself to invasion. His ass and thighs tightened, pale against verdant green skin, clenching around Vorador’s immovable strength. Despite the elder vampire’s care, it still hurt, barely-healed muscles threatening to tear anew. “I-I don’t know …” if I can do this, but those last few words remained unspoken, Raziel knowing he *had* to do this, that he had no choice.

He refused to look, squeezing his eyes again in concentration as his breathing sped once more, fingers digging desperately into those corded arms. He could feel every shift, every raised ridge pulling at the edges of his overstretched hole as Vorador slowly withdrew.

Long pauses gave the fledgling time to adjust -- to the extent that he could -- Vorador carefully timing his incremental withdrawal to each fluttering ripple of muscle around him. The act required fine control, but netted a wealth of pleasure -- in each hesitant squeeze, each flinch and gasp and the soft sounds of a fledgling being broken open for the first time. “There... easy. Let each breath fill your lungs, feel the gradual exhalation. And again...” Vorador’s voice was a bone-deep resonance, a whisper to the back of the brain.

It took... minutes, perhaps, to draw all but his cockhead from Raziel’s ass, the little ring of the whelp’s opening pouting obscenely around each ridge, each raised scale, reluctant to let any measure of the terrible thickness slip free. Turning his wrist, Vorador wrapped his talons around Raziel’s hand... and guided those black-nailed fingers to the stone container of thick oil. “Now, fledgling. Reach down... and prepare my organ.” Vorador considered, then made a concession. “You may employ both hands, if you wish.”

His hand touched the cold stone, scrabbling blindly over the lip as Raziel shivered. Vorador’s new game was rapidly becoming evident; no longer content with mere injury, he expected Raziel to assist in his own violation--to serve this elder as if he were Kain himself, his flesh worthy of devotion. There was the briefest flash of anger at this creature’s presumption--but it rapidly faded, overcome by fear. For Raziel now knew full well the pain that awaited him if did not cooperate with the elder’s demands, the memory of it still resonating in flesh and bone alike. Shameful it might be, but he could not face that agony again--not if there was anything that could be done to prevent it.

Carefully, not wishing to tip the container from the table, he felt for the open edge, dipping fingers clumsily inside. Then he reached downward, between his legs and past his own flaccid flesh, to where the elder’s cock still held his hole stretched open, Vorador shifting upward slightly to give him better access. Fully erect, flushed dark and adorned with Raziel’s blood, Vorador’s flesh was no less intimidating in its size now than it had been before. Raziel hesitated, unsure of how to proceed--then carefully wrapped pale fingers around the exposed length, smearing the oil liberally over its surface. One hand was not enough to encompass Vorador’s turgid flesh, and Raziel shivered, feeling the fine scaled pattern and raised ridges underneath the pads of his fingers, the subtle twitching response of that engorged cock to his touch.

Vorador’s growl of dark satisfaction would have raised the fine hairs at the back of any mortal’s neck. Those tentative and reluctant touches, the fledgling’s practiced skill and the exploratory whorls traced by those trembling fingertips... oh, yes. Perfection unutterable. “More -- nnm. More oil than that, fledgling. Around the sides, and at the juncture of our bodies. There...” with his own concealed shudder, Vorador scooped up a further measure of the oil, letting it drip across Raziel’s moving fingers. Such a clever fledgling, this one. Vorador hissed in an unneeded breath as Raziel found one of the thick-weaving veins that ran the length of the underside of his cock.

In reward for the unwilling yet thorough caresses, Vorador lifted the back of his talon to the fledgling’s own soft organ, letting the rough, slick leather of his hand press slowly up the pale length. He returned to the root for another light stroke, rolling Raziel’s cock against his own belly. Even flaccid, the organ was pleasing in proportion and form, cleanly formed, the hood slipping smoothly over the half-concealed glans.

Raziel froze at the first touch of those deadly talons upon his cock, expecting at any moment to be made a eunuch or worse. But all they did was explore, caressing the soft organ lightly, and after several long minutes he released his inhaled breath, gingerly resuming his own ministrations. Vorador’s attentions were incredibly deft for such clumsy-looking talons, he soon found, with bladed edges kept well away from fragile skin, the fine-grained patterns of callous and leathered palm suddenly more fascinating than fearful as they stroked pleasure into him. Under such attentions, Raziel could not help put respond, arching just a little as his cock began to fill, to nuzzle upward like a blind thing and push upward into that stroking palm.

It was dangerous, and heady, and distracting, those attentions--and a low rumble of dissatisfaction from the elder’s throat quickly brought Raziel back to his own appointed task. His fingers were by now thoroughly coated in oil, pale and slick as they stroked upward, until he dared to anoint the place where they were joined. The feel of his own fingers at his own overstretched hole was a dark and shuddering delight, Raziel exploring by touch the extent of Vorador’s claim, caressing what exposed flesh he could. The elder was right--one hand was not going to be enough.

Vorador voiced a grating rumble-purr, a near-tangible expression of satisfaction. He’d not expected the fledgling to be so capable, nor so resilient. Had Vorador inflicted punishment like this on almost any other young fledgling, the close memory of pain would have rendered that unfortunate beyond pleasure. “Such a responsive creature you are, Raziel. Your Sire surely values you a great deal....” Partially erect, the whelp’s cock was finer still, slightly arched, a pleasant weight to be cradled in the center of Vorador’s palm, dusky pink beginning to blossom where the skin was thinnest. The elder turned his attention there, stroking slow whorls over the tip of Raziel’s cock, tracing fine patterns over the achingly soft skin around the corona.

The elder repeated that sound when Raziel hesitantly brought his other hand to the task. The fledgling’s short, sharp claws were prickling little points of pleasure, his gradually firming strokes shudderingly pleasurable. It had been far, far too long since Vorador had done this. Vorador’s breath caught at a particularly fine, lingering caress. “E-enough, youngling.” Reluctantly, the elder’s hand left the flesh with which he toyed, moved to place Raziel’s slick fingertips exactly where he wanted them, one hand at the pouting little mouth of Raziel’s ass, the other upon the fledgling’s own cock. “I will enter you now. Until you are loosened enough for me, assist me in easing each ridge into you. And, fledgling -- I do not wish to see you soften.”

Vorador resettled his slick talons on Raziel’s hips, and slowly, very slowly, began to press his cock back inside.

Raziel swallowed the plea that wanted to escape, knowing that Vorador was not likely to listen. He had taken that cock in its entirety before, and it had ripped him apart; how was the addition of some oil likely to change the outcome of this endeavor? But Vorador was moving, pushing his engorged flesh back into Raziel’s body whether the younger vampire willed it or not. Somewhat desperately, he smoothed fingers over that dark-flushed green flesh, stroking the slickened surface--and when the first ridges pressed against his ass once more, caressed against them with shaking fingers, pressing inward and easing their way past that tight-clinging ring of muscle and into his body.

It still hurt--but the hurt was less than it was, and nothing like the agony of Vorador’s earlier thrusts. Mindful of the elder’s warning, Raziel kept his hand clasped around his own erection--and when it threatened to flag under the strain of that entry, stroked himself with stuttering, distracted caresses, providing just enough familiar pleasure to counteract the pain. First one ridge, then another--and then with a small movement, a shifting of position, one of those ridges rubbed hard inside him and sent a bolt of sensation straight to his softening cock. Caught by surprise, a breathless cry escaped before Raziel could call it back.

Vorador held himself still at that gasping cry, hesitating just at that point. But the jolting twitch of the smaller vampire’s cock suggested that pain was not that sound’s driving impetus. “Ahh, there now, fledgling?” Vorador rotated his hips slightly, inclined them a little, pressing forward a half-inch and then drawing his cock back in the same measure. It had been ages since Vorador had been concerned with reading a mounted fledgling’s responses, giving weight and substance to each little penetrated cry and twitch, but it was a skill one could never really unlearn. Another angling of his hips, and Vorador found again the place that made Raziel writhe, though perhaps not entirely with pleasure, not yet. Holding the angle, Vorador pushed again, filling the fledgling with more of his length.

At a pause in the renewed impalement, Vorador lifted a hand from Raziel’s hip, wrapped it instead over the fledgling’s own fist, guiding and firming the distracted masturbation. “Shall I summon your brother, Raziel? Surely he has some ability with his mouth. And such tender hands... perhaps he would have more success in keeping you hard for me.”

Raziel’s body stiffened at those growling words, locking down in instinctive rejection--and the choked cry that escaped as he did so had nothing to do with pleasure as old hurts flared back into painful life.

“Please … please don’t!” All hint of enjoyment had disappeared, Raziel’s scent turning acrid with fear and impotent anger. As shameful as it would be to be seen like this, Raziel would have endured it--after all, what was innocence to a vampire? But a fledgling as young as Rahab or Zephon would not stand a chance at surviving such games as these. Kain had charged him with their protection, and he had failed once already--did Vorador intend to force him to compound that failure?

Vorador blinked, lifted his head in surprise at the fledgling’s sudden, wrenching tension. What had led to such a strong reaction? Shame, or something else? He would be certain to question the whelp -- but later. The clasp of Raziel’s hand around his shaft had seized to the point of discomfort; that of his body was a velvet bliss, but not one in which Vorador could move without inflicting further injury. “Easy, fledgling. Let me feel you draw a breath, slowly... there, just so. And another... now. Enjoin me properly.” Moving slowly lest he startle another such panicked reaction, he stroked his free hand over Raziel’s temple, the side of his neck, easing the fledgling’s head into the aspect of submission. Once the fledgling, trembling, held the supplicating position without the application of further force, Vorador acquiesced. “Very well -- I shall not, provided you remain relaxed for me. Pray continue...” The elder’s talons pressed lightly over Raziel’s, where the fledgling’s hand was fisted around his own cock.

A veritable puzzle, this fledgling. It was fortunate that Vorador did so enjoy a challenge.

The residual fear did not help Raziel’s cause--nor did the thought of what Vorador might do to his brother if Raziel found himself unable to perform adequately for the elder. The shift of his head, however, the baring of his neck in supplication--these were all things he knew, and even if this submission was not to his Sire, the familarity of it was still comforting. The baring of one’s throat to another’s fangs was the most primal gesture of appeasement any fledgling could make, an offering of blood and flesh to an angry elder god.

Slowly, the tension left him as it became evident he was not to be punished for his moment of defiance, his hand stroking over his flagging cock under Vorador’s guiding touch. His flesh, thankfully, refused to be ruled by his fears, and it did not take long before it was flushed and fully erect once more, spurred on by the pleasure of his own familiar touch. It was not enough to distract him fully from the length that still lay half-buried within him--nothing in the world existed that could do *that*---but the pleasure helped dull his apprehension, to relax and focus only upon the low rumble of Vorador’s voice, commanding his obedience.

Vorador growled a dark note of satisfaction as the fledgling’s body slowly went limp, opened now, more accepting. He released Raziel’s hand, watched soft fledgling fingers pump the length of the whelp’s own erection, noting the way those fingers lingered over the head, rubbed slow glancing circles just a little lower where the corona was faintly notched. It was exquisite to see the fledgling stroke himself so close to the place where Vorador impaled him, to savor the visual contrast of platinum white, stretched pink, dark-flushed green. And there was so much more -- trembling and muscular belly soon to be distended again by the cock waiting to fill it, strong chest and shoulders as lovely as if they’d been sculpted, the arch of a throat still held bared in propitiation.

“Good boy,” Vorador rumbled, a resonant sound. “Part your lips for me.” The elder lifted a talon to his own mouth, used the point of one thick fang to draw a deep gouge between the tendons of his digit. A small telekinetic twist ensured that the wound failed to close. The seep was tiny, a few drops at a time, but it did not heal. Vorador presented the thick talon before Raziel’s mouth, the sharper edge turned away. “You may suckle only, fledgling -- carefully, lest you cut yourself.” His other hand closed again on Raziel’s hip, preparatory to continuing his invasion.

The memory of the elder’s blood, thick and rich as dark honey, was all that was required for Raziel to acquiesce, parting his lips to press them over that small wound and swallowing eagerly as liquid bliss spread over his tongue, burning down his throat. His stroking hands faltered, his attention well-diverted by this rarest of vintages--but the sensations produced by his own touch seemed to be redoubled regardless, the sheer primal ecstasy of that blood shivering over his skin, his legs flexing unconsciously, as if he wished to arch, stretching out in his pleasure like a great feline.

There was a shift, and more of Vorador’s flesh pushed inward, the broad head of that cock pushing deep into his belly. Raziel could not suppress a low groan at the burning stretch of that invasion, his fingers fumbling, stroking over their conjoined flesh--but the slow seep of that dark ambrosia kept the fear at bay, sparking his fledgling greed even as his body was slowly, inevitably reclaimed.

Gradually, ridge by ridge, the elder’s full and terrible length pushed inside Raziel’s glove-tight ass, until at last Raziel’s hand brushed both his own taut ring and Vorador’s belly, only the slick span of the fledgling’s fingers around Vorador’s cock standing in the way of full impalement. The elder nudged the tip of his talon deeper into Raziel’s mouth, between his fledgling’s fangs, admiring the way those dark lips parted for it, stretched as wide as if Raziel suckled another fledgling’s cock. The whelp’s tongue lapped and laved over the leathery skin of his digit, proof of considerable dexterity.

Vorador would have to sample that nimble organ’s charms. Later, of course.

For the moment, the ancient contented himself with slow rocking motions, dragging his cock out a fraction, pushing himself back in, admiring the way Raziel’s hand on the root of him clutched and trembled. Vorador hissed softly with the gripping pleasure of this act, beginning to establish a slow, gradual rhythm, the corded muscle of his hips tensing and releasing. Every time he withdrew even a fragment, the whelp’s body seemed to suck at him, as if to draw him back inside. The sounds the fledgling made, soft little stoppered groans, raised a frisson up Vorador’s stony hide. Magnificent.

Vorador’s slow movements seemed as inescapable and inevitable as the tide, shifting Raziel’s slighter frame with each tiny thrust and withdrawal. A soft and guttural sound escaped his throat at a particularly deep thrust inward, Raziel tightening his legs and shifting his hips in an attempt to escape his discomfort--only to arch with a throttled cry as his own movements ensured another ridge rubbed deep inside, sparking another lightning-flash of painful ecstasy. Tiny convulsions of muscle, inside and out, stroked that invading member as Raziel’s own softer cock rubbed hard against the corded muscle of the elder vampire’s stomach. Try as he might, he could not seem to stop the fine trembling of his limbs. The blood upon his lips was bliss, but this other … he moved instinctively, arching just a little, doing his best to ride each thrust and slow withdrawal. Every moment trembled on the edge of agony; but something new was sparking deep inside with each shift, each tremor ….

Vorador’s pleasure was a tight-twisting thing, coiling up the length of his spine one vertebrae at a time, building with every little motion. The fledling’s body spoke volumes, every arch and shift a message in code. The elder indulged Raziel as much as he could -- pausing at the muffled groans of discomfort, angling himself to draw forth more of those jolting surges that made the fledgling clench his teeth and shake -- for each response ratcheted Vorador’s bliss still tighter. “Do you feel this, fledgling?” Vorador rumbled, daring a slightly longer stroke, the ridges of his organ slipping like pearls from Raziel’s body and through his fist, then forced back in. “The place I carve in you, the place you open for me? It will be a century or more before -- nngh, yes! -- before your Sire can fill it with his own flesh.” Vorador’s heavy-horned head bent to Raziel’s proffered throat, his breath coiling over the soft skin there, rough lips and heavy fangs just brushing as he spoke. _“You were made for this.”_

Raziel clung tightly to Vorador, fingers digging in hard enough that the tips turned stark white, keening low in his throat at that last thrust. It was too much--every nerve ending overloaded with sensations that were both agony and ecstasy in one, every scrap of skin tender as that of a newborn, the thrum of that voice reverberating in his bones. The taste of Vorador’s blood was dizzying, intoxicating beyond anything he’d ever known, and suddenly the taste was too much, too rich. Letting that bloodied talon slip from his lips, Raziel felt the first slick drops of precome escape from his aching cock, smearing between their bellies. Vorador was around him, over and in him, inescapable and everywhere, and it was as if time itself had stopped, that there had never been anything else but this ecstatic torment, ever and always, until the very world came to an end.

Another slow, heavy thrust, the finely scaled flesh of Vorador’s engorged flesh moving slickly past his grasping fingers, pushing into the tender flesh of his ass--and Raziel arched fully into it, the last of his reservations dropping away. “Th-this …” he whispered hoarsely, shivering in fearful anticipation. “P-please, more ….”

Vorador braced his hand once more on the stand, fumbling for an instant with the minor spellweave that kept the wound on his hand open -- and then abandoned the attempt in favor of another long stroke, a little harder. So sweet, so tight... and the sounds the fledgling made in bliss were every bit as satisfying as those he uttered in agony. “More, youngling? You want it deeper, don’t you? Need it in the very core of you, need to be spread and opened completely, until you can feel it in your throat -- oh yes. I know what you need.” His talons encircled Raziel’s wrist, where those softer digits were wrapped around Vorador’s thick, thrusting cock. His words were a dark rumble, and it was impossible to say whether they were spoken alone, or Whispered into the fledgling’s mind as well. _“Release me, Raziel, and I shall give you more.”_

Those armored talons encircled his arm easily, but did not pull his hand away by force, the cutting edges pressing only lightly into the thin skin over Raziel’s wrist. Licking his lips, Raziel swallowed, his own far softer fingers tightening just a little at the thought of that last length pushing into him. The fear was still there, even buried under the rise of his pleasure--fear that he was incapable of accommodating the entirety of that monstrous organ, that it might tear him open in truth …

… then Vorador shifted, pushing upward with another slow rolling surge of his hips. Raziel’s breath stuttered in his throat at the feel of that thrust, a mewling cry escaping at the sparking pleasure of those ridges rubbing against the soft and still tender walls of his body. He arched, heels digging into the elder’s thighs for leverage, and his other hand, still slick with oil, finally slipped free, moving to cling with desperate strength to that back, black nails digging impotently into the corded muscles there. Obedience had its rewards--Kain had taught him that. He could only hope that it would prove true for this elder as well ….

Vorador's gold gaze glittered. "Good boy," the ancient rumbled, savoring the fledgling's arch against him, the tremble of his close-clasped thighs, the prickle of sharp nails on stony hide... and perhaps most of all, the whelp's visibly reluctant obedience. He cupped Raziel's hips in his palms, gave a slow, shuddering thrust - so carefully - judging the magnificent tautness around his impaling length. The resultant quietly mewling cry nearly proved Vorador's undoing. He held himself still a moment, teeth gritted, regaining his control.

"You're tight," Vorador grated, drawing slow breath. "It will fill you so, when I empty into you. Would that please you, fledgling?" A slow twist of the hips, a little more pressure, to screw another fraction of an inch inside. The passage was rougher like this, without Raziel's grip to smooth the way for those ridges.

"You will feel it for days, I think - my essence inside you, deep in this singular place..." Another careful push, another line of scales. Vorador's long talons curved over the line of Raziel's hips, the brocade of his doublet a roughness over the fledgling's belly and cock. The ancient’s breath shuddered from him as he pressed in, a little more, untouched flesh parting for him with slow reluctance. The long impalement ended at last, Vorador’s hips pressed tight to Raziel’s buttocks. The elder’s exhalation was a sigh, a luxurious expression of satisfaction. He’d forgotten how beautifully *warm* a fledgling could be, radiant as a forge, newly undead body still generating excess heat as it healed around Vorador.

Raziel gasped, panting reflexively as the last few finger-widths of Vorador’s formidable cock sank home, parting his flesh and burying itself to the hilt, the heavy weight of the elder’s balls resting beneath his own. There was no escape left--not against the long talons that caged his hips, the immutable strength in the arms that pulled him into each measured thrust, the brush of brocade and velvet tormenting tender skin; every inch of him had been completely and utterly claimed. It was a shameful thing, to know he was so helpless; as if he were a butterfly, pinned open and defenseless, his knees forced open in wanton display, the tender flesh of his hole stretched taut around that massive member, flushed pink and white against the dark-scaled flesh that invaded him, plunging deep and pressing up against the muscles of his belly. The elder shifted slightly, his golden gaze heavy-lidded in pleasure, and Raziel could not help but shiver as he saw the broad head of that cock outlined against the hollow of his abdomen, shifting as Vorador retreated slightly, only to surge forward, breaking him open once more. It felt as if he had become naught but an extension of Vorador’s own body, a mindless thing that shuddered and mewled with each new thrust, his only function to be sundered, invaded by that impossibly hard and ridged flesh, to arch and shiver and cry out with pain-sparked ecstasy at each withdrawal, each inexorable advance, his own aching cock helpless and forgotten. He had become nothing more than a sheath, a vessel for the elder’s pleasure, and at Vorador’s words he gave a wordless cry, lifting himself into his impalement. To Whisper into that ancient mind required a focus he no longer had; and yet Raziel could not help but broadcast his need, his mind opened by knife-edged sensation and his own shame and pleasure at the thought of being filled, of carrying the elder’s thick seed and blood alike until he could take no more ….

Vorador shuddered hard, hips rolling in another slow invasion, then another, deeper. The ring of the fledgling’s ass clasped and clung, dragging out sensation, trebling the delight to be found in this beautifully responsive body. Even the slow sucking slip of withdrawal was bliss. Vorador flexed his long talons over satin-white, lightly bruised skin, and sheathed himself fully once more. The clamoring at the corners of the elder’s awareness took shape only gradually, an undirected Whisper, a babbling wordless mantra that meant _please_ and _yes_ and _more_ in any language.

How glorious. Kain did not merit this -- such strength, responsiveness, wantonness. Carefully, lest he overwhelm the young mind beneath him, Vorador returned that half-formed Whisper with his own -- an enfolding sense of pressure, like being buried safe in deep catacombs beneath the earth, like the spread of oil on turbulent waters. _Easy_ , the blanketing impression seemed to urge, smoothing over anguishes both mental and physical. Let this happen, highlighting the pleasure in each slow taking. And -- _I am here._

This time, Vorador’s stroke was longer, root to head, the stony muscles of his thighs and hips bunching as he strove to control this lust, lest he break the fledgling beyond repair. So very close... Vorador unclasped one hand from Raziel’s hip, slipped his talons between their bellies to close around Raziel’s weeping cock. It was full, ready, the head slick with precome when Vorador passed the pad of one talon over. _Have you learned yet to obey your rider, Raziel? To come, when mounted, only upon permission?_ the ancient Whispered into the mind held pinned beneath his, his telepathy rough and grating with his own need.

Subsumed by sensation and the touch of that ancient and powerful mind, Raziel’s answer was nothing so coherent as even a nod. Instead it was an open sending of need and obey, a cascade of rising pleasure around a tiny kernel of shame and buried guilt, even as the fledgling vampire arched into another long, heavy thrust. The heat and the power of Vorador’s blood still pulsed through him, heavy in his belly and prickling along his skin like heat-lightning, and Raziel was not sure how much more he could take before flying apart … but he tried nonetheless, struggling to retain the few remaining scraps of his control, to keep himself balanced on the knife-edge in obedience to Vorador’s will. He was close--almost too close, the tightening spiral of pleasure threatening to turn once again into pain the longer he was denied.

Vorador snarled his satisfaction, a deep dark growl of pleasure. The fledgling’s obedience gave him license to enjoy the youngling’s writhing body at will, to luxuriate in the shuddering clasp of tight flesh, the twitching response of skin and muscle, the tiny sounds wrung all unwilling from Raziel’s throat. Time enough to explore the fledgling’s weeping cock, too, to squeeze and stroke and tease with vanishing touches until the whelp sobbed, arching his hips into a contact never quite firm enough. So exquisite, this old rhythm of invasion and withdrawal, of teasing and denial. The desperate ache of Vorador’s own body, so long refused the many pleasures of a fledgling, was a distant thing compared to the delight of driving Raziel ever closer to the edge, to seeing the abandon he’d etched on the body below him.

All thought had vanished, shoved by the onslaught of need and razor-edged sensation as he was sundered, cored open and filled deeper than he could have ever thought possible. Raziel keened, black-nailed fingers scrabbling frantically against broad, silk-covered shoulders. He had to be obedient, he knew, he had to wait, even though he could no longer even remember what he had been commanded to wait for. But every muscle in his body was coiled wire-tight, clenched and spasming as each endlessly deep thrust shoved him into iron-taloned hands, spiralling higher with each new sensation. Fevered and pushed beyond endurance, it felt as if he held onto the edge of the precipice by his fingertips, scrabbling for an anchor …

...only, at last, to slip. A cry of denial and ecstasy tore from his throat, almost a scream--his abused flesh seizing around another long, slow thrust, a slow squeezing stroke of that calloused palm upon his aching cock. The wire-tight coil of his pleasure had vanished, whiplashing outward to every fibre of his body in a tidal wave of ecstatic orgasm. Cresting, it dashed him down upon the rocks, breaking Raziel’s tormented flesh open with wave after shuddering wave of pleasure until he could take no more, the world slipping away in a swirl of white-sparked oblivion.

Vorador hissed sharply as the fledgling’s body began to rise to completion, a tidal sucking pull. He managed but one last stroke, fighting against the rippling convulsions, vice-tight, that milked him, drawing every iota of awareness down to a singular shaft of bliss. Ultimately, not even Vorador could resist that ground swell. Shuddering, his roar shaking the very stones around them, the ancient came in leaden spurts, forcing thick liquid deep into the fledgling’s heaving belly, each pulse a separate sensation.


	7. Chapter 7

It could have lasted an eternity, that ecstasy.  But finally spasms eased to tremors, then stilled altogether.  Slowly, Vorador fixed his elbow beneath his shoulder, lifting his crushing weight from off Raziel’s slighter frame.  He drew his hand from between their slick bellies, the talons painted with the fledgling’s seed.  Lazily, the elder examined the fluid, sniffed experimentally.  Then he presented his talons, sharp tips undercurved, to Raziel’s lips for cleaning.  “It would appear, fledgling,” rumbled Vorador, flexing his hips -- it would take him some little time to soften, after such satisfaction as this -- “that you have disobeyed me.”

Raziel felt like nothing so much as a wrung out husk, his limbs strengthless.  Floating in a foggy kind of limbo, shivering intermittently from random aftershocks, it seemed far too much effort to focus his gaze or bring himself to comprehend the meaning behind the low rumble of that voice.  Every last scrap of defiance and stamina both had been expended, and only the elixir of the elder’s potent blood kept him from unconsciousness;  assuaging the demands of the half-healed remnants of his wounds.  At the nudge of that talon, his lips parted without thinking, Kain’s training coming to the fore as he lapped obediently at the massive digits, obliquely reassured by the familiar taste of his own seed.

Slowly, however, he became belatedly aware of his transgression.  He had taken his pleasure without waiting for the elder’s command … had he sprung a new trap in doing so?  First pain, then humiliating pleasure--was it now to be pain once more?  That he had not defied Vorador deliberately would make no difference, he knew--and if Vorador were at all like Kain, offering any excuse for his failure would only garner him more punishment, not less.  

If he were whole, standing upon familiar territory with blade in hand, he might have mustered up some scrap of defiance regardless.  But here and now, pinned under the weight of the elder’s body, he could not prevent the fine tremors that shivered over his skin, even as he knew them for the shameful evidence of his own fear and weakness that they were.

Vorador rotated his talon, letting the fledgling’s tongue lap all trace of slickness from the digit, enjoying the close and careful attention.  Even half-aware, still visibly dazed, the whelp was pleasingly thorough.  It was not until after that task was complete, once Raziel had nothing to focus his attention, that the fledgling began to tremble, began to exude the bitter scent of real distress.

In a human, the smell of fear was different, a salt tang that spiced the hunt.  In a fledgling, though... “Hn.”  Vorador repositioned himself slightly, eased himself a little from the trembling clasp of the whelp’s body.  Raziel had begun to tense as he registered Vorador’s implied threat.  “The disobedience speaks to your training, youngling, not your quality, and is correctable.”  The elder studied his captive -- oddly, his statement did not appear to very much reassure the whelp.  With a short sigh of familiar exasperation -- fledglings! -- Vorador straightened, curved his talons again over Raziel’s hips, long thumb-talons fitting neatly along the creases of his groin, beside his softening cock.  “I do not intend to mete out upon you such punishments again.  Now, relax for me...”  slowly, one slicked inch at a time, Vorador began to withdraw his softening length.      

A tiny discontented sound escaped before he could call it back--even softened in the aftermath of orgasm, Vorador’s member was still substantial, dragging slowly at slick, sensitized flesh.  Only Raziel’s own utter boneless lethargy made the elder’s withdrawal relatively painless, the last echoes of pleasure still cascading like fireflies over his skin at the shift of those talons upon his skin.   He felt hollowed out, stretched open and used, and he could not fathom Vorador’s sudden solicitude.  It wasn’t born out of any fear of retribution, that was clear.  

He wanted to ask why, wanted to know what the elder wanted from him.  But every time he asked that question, he received an answer that only confused him more.  Finally, licking his lips, he ventured a different question instead.  “...training?”

Vorador plucked a linen handkerchief from a flat-seamed pocket of his doublet, and used the fine fabric to clean himself -- to the extent he could.  Oil and thick silver-gleaming seed were smeared liberally upon him, and the cloth rapidly accumulated a pink stain.  The scent of the elder’s fluids was strange when Raziel drew breath to speak, green and metal and sweet.  “Indeed.  In the means and methods of best pleasing your elders.” Vorador affirmed, tucking himself away, and then dragged his palms over Raziel’s trembling skin to the fledgling’s heels.  He eased those legs back to the table, settling each foot firmly, leaving Raziel’s thighs spread wantonly wide in abject display.  The little hole there gaped, the flesh reddened and bruised, hot to the touch where tears had closed.  “You needs must, for instance, keep yourself tight as possible, save when directed otherwise.  Clench for me.”

It was unmistakeably a command, and Raziel responded to it unthinkingly, trying to tighten his hole once more--only to wince at the sharp remnant twinges that resulted, a painful counterpoint to the slow seep of the elder’s seed trickling out of his body.  The pain woke him a little more from his lethargy, and some remnant spark of defiance roused itself from the embers of his will.  “...you are not my Sire.  Why … should I learn to obey an enemy?”  

It was hard to push the words out, and he steeled himself, waiting for the inevitable punishment.  But he was Kain’s firstborn--he owed his allegiance to no other, no matter what the elder wanted!  His hands curled into the padded surface of the table--with his arms and legs free, it was tempting to try and push himself away.  Only the latent threat of those razored talons upon his flesh kept him where he was ….

Vorador’s low laugh grated over Raziel’s skin.  “Well now, fledgling,” Vorador rumbled, his humor evidently not much disturbed by Raziel’s defiance.  The back of his talon nudged at the little ring of muscle, testing. “You speak as if you believed you had a choice in the matter.” Vorador reached out, and as if from the very air itself, plucked a length of gleaming metal.  It was as long as one of his talons, and about that thick, one end flared and the other somewhat pointed, the interim bulbrous in some places and somewhat pinched in others.  He set the cold tip at Raziel’s flushed and swollen entrance, and then paused, as if in momentary thought.  “You, of course, do not,” Vorador clarified.  “For if you cannot obey of your own accord, I shall simply aid you.  In this case, thusly.”  He began to press the plug inside -- not so cruelly as before, but with a certain callous indifference to the fledgling’s discomfort.  One heavy hand held Raziel’s hips still, kept the fledgling from twisting away.

The last dregs of Raziel’s euphoria vanished as he felt the press of blunt metal against his ass.  He snarled, baring fangs in instinctive defiance, black-nailed fingers clawing at the table in a futile effort to escape.  “Nnh--I am not--” he broke off with an indrawn breath as the plug was forced into his body.  It was not nearly as large as the elder’s erect flesh, and his overstretched hole swallowed it easily, a frisson of sensation rippling through oversensitive flesh as Vorador pushed it even further inward.  “--am not just some convenient plaything!”  The irregular, slick surface of the metal was unlike anything he had ever felt before, and he felt the delicate muscles of his ass spasm without his willing it, trying in vain to expel the intruder.  “Let me go!”  His brothers--one was prisoner here, but the others--who knew where they were, how they fared?  Left unguarded in a city aflame … the thought of his failure twisted painfully within his gut.  If any of them had died--he did not think Kain would forgive him, firstborn or not.

“Convenient?  Hardly.  And let you go?  You know the proper manner by which to plead favors.”  Vorador applied a little more pressure, pinning the thrashing youngling more firmly.  With all of Raziel’s squirming and twisting, however, the metal plug began to slip out of the close, slick clasp of the fledgling’s hole, none of the length of cold metal being flared enough to keep it inside.  The pad of his thumb on the engraved base, Vorador pressed the toy back in.  “But perhaps I have not adequately explained myself.  If the plug is not a sufficient aid to following my directive, then I will remove it.  And instead, I will take a cane, and beat you just here...”  Vorador trailed a talontip lightly down Raziel’s perineum, circling his stretched ass, “...until you are swollen so that you cannot help but stay tight for me.”

Vorador tilted his head thoughtfully as Raziel stiffened and snarled, recalling another of the fledgling’s strong reactions.  “Or... perhaps, Raziel, ‘tis not you who might most effectively bear the reminding.  Should I ensure that your brethren suffers for your disobedience?” 

“No!”  Raziel hissed, terrified and ashamed and angry all at once.  The elder’s expression darkened, and he had to fight the urge to cringe--he had no doubt that Vorador would follow through on his threats, should he decide Raziel needed lessoning.  Which left him few options;  if Raziel wished to protect his brother, then he must do whatever it took to appease the creature that held them both captive, at least long enough for them to escape--or for Kain to find them.

Biting back a despairing snarl, Raziel turned his head, baring the line of his neck as best he could.  It stung, but he did his best to hold the metal plug within him, his hands fisted mutely at his sides.  Shame burned in his throat, almost choking off the words stillborn--but he forced them out, one word at a time.  “Please … if I do what you command … I would like to see my brother.”  That at least would tell him which of his brothers was also being held captive, and whether or not they were injured.  Fledgling flesh was devoid of armor, almost as soft as a human’s, and so terribly easy to wound ….  

In truth, Raziel’s own hide was not yet that much tougher--but that hardly mattered.  He was eldest, and the safety of his brethren was his responsibility.  Even if he did not want to think about what his Sire would do when he saw how Raziel had failed in that duty thus far ….

Vorador’s narrowed gaze was like a weight over the fledgling’s throat; that trembling baring rendered Raziel more exposed, more helpless, than his nudity.  “Seeking to bargain with me, fledgling?” Vorador rumbled, lifting a hand to lay his palm upon that proffered skin, feeling the pulseless flow of arteries under the velvet surface.  He stroked slowly there, chin to chest, rough leather and the subtle scrape of sharp chitin skimming so very lightly.  The fledgling’s skin was taut as silk, and just as smooth.  “I will have your compliance regardless, Raziel.  What do you offer with me, then, that I do not already possess?”     

Raziel swallowed, his throat tight under the slow, menacing stroke of those talons.  “You--you spoke of training.  If you allow me to see my brother, and leave him unharmed--then I shall endeavor to be an apt and obedient pupil, as my Sire has taught me.”  He kept his throat bared, but above it his eyes narrowed slightly, his expression defiant, if tinged with fear.  “Or I can battle you every step of the way, regardless of the cost.  I may pay in blood and pain;  but you will waste a great deal of time trying to wring compliance out of an unbending neck, regardless.”  It was a feeble threat, but it was the only one he could make--he only hoped that the elder could taste the truth of his words.  His body still trembled in the aftermath of Vorador’s earlier tortuous attentions, and he hardly wished to invite more pain.  But even *that* would still be better than facing the prospect of Kain’s fury, should his Sire learn that Raziel had abandoned his brethren simply to save his own skin.

“Can you now.”  Vorador’s fractured gaze betrayed only an ancient and elemental kind of amusement, kin, perhaps, to the predatory joy that reveled in toying with prey.  “You put a great deal of faith in your own mastership of stubbornness, do you not?”  Vorador’s palm moved to scrape, stroke, lightly over Raziel’s shoulder, talons tips ghosting over the places that had been burned so deeply by holy oils.  The wounds were gone, but deep pockmarks remained, scars that might last months.  Blood and ashes still painted the fledgling’s skin in places, a week-old and flaking patina.  This room was equipped with little that could be used to clean Raziel adequately for his next use.  But perhaps... perhaps the whelp’s proposal was of some interest, after all.  If the fledgling’s performance proved disappointing, Vorador could always return to his prior plans.  What harm could there be in it, really?     

And, come to think of it, Vorador seemed to recall that there were several items down in the exunge chambers that might prove of use.  They’d be easier to fit to an unresisting fledgling.

“I shall permit you opportunity to prove yourself -- and your proposal,” Vorador allowed, smoothing his hand down Raziel’s chest, to hip and curve of buttock.  He tapped a chitinous talon-tip on the metal base of the plug inserted into Raziel’s body, pushing it subtly a little deeper.  “Sit up for me, fledgling.”   

Suppressing a flinch, Raziel pushed himself upwards, resolutely ignoring the fine tremoring of his muscles.  It wasn’t pain--not at the moment--but simply a reminder of a body taxed by old wounds and new, not to mention the overwhelming demands Vorador had made upon him.  All of that could be pushed aside, however, and so Raziel did just that--focusing on the elder’s command instead.  If he could not prove himself capable of keeping his side of the bargain …

As he sat upward, the plug shifted, slipping a little.  Sucking in a breath, Raziel stilled, a tremor running through him as unyielding metal pressed hard against far softer flesh.  It went against every instinct not to try and push against that invasion;  but under the elder’s intent gaze, he could do little but tighten the muscles of his ass, doing his awkward best to keep the toy from slipping any further.

Vorador’s eyes narrowed, assessing, as he watched the fledgling sit up, thighs tensing, heels digging into the velvet as the movement shifted the impaling length of metal.  His other three-clawed hand joined the first on Raziel’s skin, talons following the curve of his lower back, a slow drag that would have raised goosebumps if Raziel still possessed follicles.  The elder dragged Raziel closer, taking the fledgling’s weight with easy strength.  Then the world warped around them. 

Still a shock, teleportation was not so rough a passage as Raziel recalled.  In Kain’s company, the arcane transportation was something like being cast through the folded plane of existence -- this was more akin to stepping through gauze.  There was a moment of nausea, some disorientation as the bloom of light faded from his eyes, but then Raziel found himself being set to his feet upon oddly warm stone, talons still on his skin lest he stumble.  The air smelled vaguely humid, dusty, scented like roses long-faded.

Magelights affixed to the wall, dark for years, began to brighten as power flowed to them once more.  The warm glow revealed a round chamber, very high and large enough to accommodate a score or more, faced with false arches in swirled or streaked marble, all elaborately carved.  Some of these huge niches housed outsized carvings of winged men in glossy stone, their hands as cloven as Vorador’s; another terminated in a great set of double doors, slightly ajar.  Dust was thick beneath Raziel’s feet for a moment, and then the pads of his feet tingled with a scurrying sensation as the detrius of ages vanished, the room rapidly ordering itself in response to its master’s will.  Delicate metalwork shed its tarnish;  heaped pillows and cushions brightened, their fabrics renewed.  

In the center of the room, concentric steps leading up terminated in a shadowed and sunken circular space, five strides wide or more.  As Raziel’s eyes cleared and the magelights brightened, their illumination revealed a rippled, liquid surface.      

For a moment, Raziel could do little but gape.  He had been too disoriented to properly appreciate the sheer luxury that surrounded him before--but this--this was like nothing he’d ever known.  For vampires to live as the humans did was impossible--unthinkable.  With the Sarafan an ever-present threat, no vampire was safe anywhere for long, and Kain had kept them to edges of human habitation.  They had lived deep in the wilds when Raziel had been new-made, only gradually venturing into the prey-rich territories of human cities under cover of darkness.  Even then, their chosen shelters were, of necessity, abandoned--often either as a result of a night’s hunt, or in the underbellies of those self-same cities.  

The manse that they had been forced to abandon before their ill-fated journey to Haven had been one of the former--a minor lord’s country seat, seldom-used even before its owner’s death.  At the time Raziel had thought it the height of luxury, but this ….  Heavy, thick-woven drapes softened the corners of the room, framing walls covered in vivid, gilt-edged tiles.  Every lintel and piece of edging was carved, ornamented in fine filagree, and polished, gold-veined marble lay under his feet, its clouded surface turning into a mirrored gleam as subtle magics scoured away the accumulated grime of years.

Then Raziel spied the pool that awaited them.  Sheer terror surged upward, catching him by the throat, and he stumbled backwards, jerking frantically against the elder’s grip.  There could only be one reason for a pool of water within a vampire’s domain;  having taken his pleasure of his captive, did Vorador now mean to watch Raziel writhe and die in agony as the water melted flesh from bone?

Vorador, standing with his head tilted back as he directed and channeled the old resident spells of this place, spinning again those that time had faded, was taken aback by the fledgling’s sudden and very active panic.  The elder growled, caught Raziel’s wrists as the whelp attempted first to climb straight through Vorador’s broad frame, then to dodge around.  Raziel was fast, lithe like only a fledgling could be, and both determined and remarkably stubborn.  His doublet, Vorador was forced to conclude, was going to be a total loss.  “What the deuce -- be still, whelp,” the elder hissed, dragging the fledgling close and clamping a heavy-leathery palm hard on the back of his neck.  The grip, coupled with the ever-present press of Vorador’s vast aura, should have enforced a calming narcotic haze upon a fledgling’s mind.  Raziel seemed scarcely to notice.  “Do you abjure your promise so soon, and proffer your sibling to my attentions instead, fledgling?” Vorador growled, expression darkening.   

“No!  No, no, no ….”  Raziel shook his head convulsively, still writhing, clawing at his captor’s wrist.  Oddly enough, he hardly seemed to notice Vorador’s obvious displeasure, his terrified gaze still locked upon the deadly, deceptive pool of water that awaited them.  He keened, unable to escape the elder’s immovable strength, until desperate fear drove him to reach out, silently pleading what he could not put in words.  The burning kiss of water, acid death against undead flesh … even the thought of his brother under Vorador’s claws could not outweigh the horror at being faced with his own torturous death.   _ I didn’t promise to die!  Not like this! _

Reaching out to the ancient vampire’s mind was nearly as easy as finding Kain’s, under normal circumstances.  The feel of it was darker, solid, heavy as iron and fired by the passage of aeons.  Vorador blinked, heavy brow ridge arched.   “Promise to... *what*?” he demanded, feeling absurdly as if he were a new sire once more, with only the vaguest idea of what a fledgling needed and wanted and feared.  For the whelp’s distress was both very obvious, and very fixated upon.... oh.  

A fledgling spawned in the sheltered environment of this manse, scarce leaving its confines until it was Raziel’s age, developed a healthy respect for the hazards posed by fire, sunlight, and water.  But Vorador saw little reason to enhance natural fears beyond such caution.  For a fledgling raised in the wilds, however, left to its own devices while its sire hunted leagues away... interesting.  Kain, Vorador could see, had taken no chances.  

Releasing Raziel’s wrists, the ancient caught him up at the waist instead, grip still firm at the back of the fledgling’s neck.   _You will not die, fledgling;  it is not water,_  he returned, stalking towards the raised steps with his burden.  He left coin-sized drops of thick black blood behind, drawn from where Raziel clawed at his skin -- the spots vanished slowly from the marble, cleaned away by the room’s unseen mageries.  

Pinned against the elder’s side by a muscled arm as unyielding as an iron bar, Raziel cringed as they approached the pool.  Despite Vorador’s assurance, he could not fathom how the clear liquid could be anything *but* water--it was obviously some manner of trick or punishment!  

By the time they had mounted the steps and reached the edge of the pool, Raziel had ceased to struggle.  His hands were locked upon Vorador’s wrist as the elder vampire shifted his grip, every muscle stiff in anticipation of agony, and he squeezed his eyes shut as the elder shifted forward, the taloned hand at his nape unyielding as his cringing feet were lowered into the pool.  At the touch of the liquid, Raziel flinched, a full-body jerk as he felt the pool lap at the soles of his feet …

… only to have his eyes fly open as the cool touch did not burn, did not sear his flesh.   _ Wh-what? _  he Whispered, baffled.   _What is this?_  It was as transparent as water, rippling and sloshing about the basin’s edge just the same--but it was thicker, more viscious.  It felt almost like an oil--but no oil, now matter how refined, had ever smelled like this, or was so impossibly clear!

 _Simply rock oil, Raziel,_ Vorador Whispered, humoring the stunned fledgling even as he set the whelp’s feet to the first step, and held him there when his knees would have given way,  drawn up from depths beyond which water penetrates.  There was a great deal more to it than that, of course -- the processes used to separate the heavier elements of oil from the lighter and the volatile ones, the methods to clarify and distill.  But the end result was a mineral spirit worthy of the finest perfume bases and medicines, odorless and tasteless, only a little thicker than water.  Unseen pumps disturbed the surface of the substance, drove the oil down through filters and traps and then back again.  Vorador turned his attention to a stray loop of magic, tightening it, and the whole of the pool began to warm gradually, hotter currents circulating through the cool substance, bringing it slowly to the temperature of blood.  Subtle magelights placed beneath the oil flickered on as well, illuminating the fluid from beneath so that it glowed and rippled, the tiles below the surface as clear as if beheld through water.

Once he was certain that the fledgling would stand on the shallow step, Vorador released him.  “Now, fledgling.  If you are quite finished gawking, attend me,” he said, gesturing at the laces of his heavy brocade doublet.  

Still gazing down at his submerged feet in wonder--liquid that did not burn!  Amazing!--Raziel belatedly jerked his attention back to Vorador, once again aware that he courted the elder’s displeasure with his ignorance.  There was no sign of any of the injuries that he had inflicted in his struggles to free himself, but the torn and disarrayed fabric over that broad chest was enough to make him wince.  That Vorador had not disciplined him for his behavior was a mercy that Raziel knew he had done little to deserve;  and one unlikely to be repeated.  Moving forward, he reached out and began to unlace the doublet, his five-fingered and still human hands making quick work of the ties before easing off the ornately embroidered outer garment.  Folding it and setting it aside carefully, just as he would have with his own sire, he hesitated, touching the softer, silken fabric of the tunic underneath.  “... the rest of your clothing as well, my lord?”  It felt odd, using that honorific for any other than Kain--but far better that than mis-naming the elder before him as ‘Sire’ or ’master’!

Vorador watched the fledgling collect himself with remarkable adroitness -- interesting, that, as adaptability and a hard head were traits which rarely went hand in hand -- and start on the lacings.  The garment was bloodied and ripped and spattered with fluids unmentionable, but the whelp still treated it with proper care, peeling it carefully from Vorador’s skin where it had stuck to the places shallow wounds had been.  It... had been a long time since Vorador had possessed a fledgling to attend him thusly.  He could feel muscles unwind with each tentative touch, each hesitant stroke, fabric worked back from fabric with care.  Raziel’s spoken honorific was more pleasing still, no less satisfying for being offered willingly.  Perhaps there was something to be said for this bargain, after all.  

“Indeed.  Continue,” Vorador rumbled, proffering his shredded silk cuff for the fledgling’s attention, when the coat was disposed of.

Raziel immediately turned his attention to the offered wrist, slipping the corded ties free until the sleeve hung free, then doing the same with the other.  Even stained and abused, the cloth underneath his fingertips was fascinating;  smooth and of a finer weave than he had ever seen, it almost begged to be touched.  Daring a little bit, Raziel let his fingers linger, just for a moment, smoothing over the silken fabric.  

Unlike the doublet, however, the tunic did not lace down the front or the side, but was rather pulled over one’s head.  And given how much Vorador overtopped him in height ….  it took more than a little effort and some assistance upon the elder’s part before the tunic could also be folded and laid aside.  Making the process even more difficult was the everpresent shifting of the plug within him--each bend, each movement became an exercise in concentration as he fought to keep the slick metal from slipping free, even as he served at the elder vampire’s command.  

With both doublet and tunic now gone, Vorador was no less imposing, his chest and shoulders an impassible wall of carved jade, dark-veined skin stretched taut over densely layered muscle.  Raziel knew well the feel of that strength, how impossible it had been to fight;  and still, there was a certain fascination, a sudden desire to pit himself against the elder once more, to measure his own prowess against the ancient before him.  Was this what his Sire would become, in time?  Or even … himself?  Shaking away his own impossible thoughts, he reached for the placket of the elder vampire’s trousers, refusing to allow himself to hesitate as he undid the haphazard ties over Vorador’s groin.  He was a vampire, a warrior--flesh was flesh, and even if this particular elder’s flesh was rather … imposing … it made little difference in the task that had been sent before him.  Or so he told himself as he tucked fingers into the opened waistband and knelt--shuddering as the metal phallus seemed to shift and press inward at the movement--in order to tug those pants downward.

The breeches, perfectly tailored, peeled down over hips and subtly-scaled thighs.  There was something... not quite right about Vorador’s build, something about the joints that seemed alien in some indefinable way, even beyond the heavier-than-natural musculature.  At the edge of the pool where Raziel knelt, he had a very close view of the elder’s knee -- there was no floating patella or ribbons of tendon beneath thin skin as in any human or vampire, but rather a texture of bolder scales over a joint shielded in plates.  Yet clearly, the ancient creature suffered no detriment to his agility.      

Vorador stepped out of the puddled leather of his trousers, his two-toed feet as lacquered and heavy-looking as great hooves, but more mobile, the toes cupping as the foot lifted and splaying as it was set down again.  The elder wore no footware -- none was needed, certainly not here.  Vorador’s heavy hand, talons less chitinous than those of his feet, descended to cup the back of Raziel’s head.  “Now this...” Vorador rumbled in delicative contemplation, clawtips carding idly through Raziel’s blood-matted hair.  The ancient’s cock, even soft, was near thick as a man’s wrist, darker than the rest of his hide.  At least the head of his organ, now, was no broader than the rest.  “...does present some possibilities.”  He tilted his head, studying the fledgling’s mouth, the bow of the lips, the set of them.   “But not before you are cleaned.  Come, Raziel.  Retrieve for me the cloths and stoneware, just there -- ” Vorador released the whelp and gestured directly across the pool, indicating that the fledgling was to wade, even as he stepped down into the pool himself.  The elder’s hooves found sure purchase on the rough-molded tile.    

With a last uncertain look, Raziel did as he was bid, stepping cautiously down into the pool.  The liquid swirled around him, warm and glimmering in the light, coating his skin lightly wherever it touched.  But it remained harmless, even pleasant in its warmth and soothing touch, and he could not help but drag the tips of his fingers through the oil in wonderment.

Then, recalling the duties set before him, he began to wade his way across the pool.  It was slow going--his own feet did not have the added stability granted by the cutting edges of the elder’s cloven ones, and the oil was slick over the rough marble floor of the pool, pulling at him with every slow stride.  Even worse was the ever-present plug;  Raziel found he had to concentrate, tightening the muscles of his ass around the smooth metal as it shifted, feeling as if it was likely to slip free with every step.  It was both arousing and shameful;  and Raziel could almost feel Vorador’s gaze lingering upon his back and his buttocks as he moved.

He retrieved the items, setting them together upon a small tray that lay nearby, and waded again across the pool, his movements turned slow and languid as he did his best to keep his balance without dropping his burden.  The tray contained several folded cloths of rough linen and a sea-sponge for scrubbing, as well as a couple of bowls containing unfamiliar unguents.  There were also a smattering of vials, corked and well-sealed;  likely containing perfumed oils, it seemed, as his nose caught the faded scent of musk and spice.  

Raziel proffered the tray uncertainly to the waiting elder, unsure whether Vorador wished to take his pick of the items there, or simply wanted the selection to hand.

Vorador had seated himself upon a sunken step while the fledgling retrieved his playthings, the better to lean back and observe.  From behind, the fledgling was a work of art -- fine sleekly muscled back, skin already an enameled lily white, ass a firm palmful, the base of the plug glinting from between the cheeks sometimes when the fledgling took too large a stride.  The view was at least as good from the front.  The oil reached just over the top of Raziel’s thighs, so that the oil itself seemed to toy with the fledgling’s cock with every step, the organ now bobbing beneath, now scudding across the surface.  

Women were a delight, to be sure, but there were unique pleasures to be had in sampling the charms of male fledglings, as well.  Vorador never had been too terribly picky.     
Reaching out one handed, Vorador took the tray from the fledgling and set it beside him, at the rim of the pool.  “Good boy,” the ancient thrummed, gaze half-lidded, even as he reached to stroke from Raziel’s thigh up his flank, the touch dragging warm oil over dry skin.  Vorador’s leathery palm found the curve of buttock, and one thick talon slipped wetly down the crease between cheeks, to the base of the plug, one knob of which had escaped the clasp of Raziel’s ass.  Chitin tapped against metal, a vibration all through the plug -- and then Vorador smoothly pushed it, shoved it, back into its rightful place.   “Now kneel,” Vorador growled, gesturing to the lower step, between the ancient’s spread thighs.

Raziel shuddered, shivering helplessly as the plug was pushed further into his ass.  Then his head came up, his spine stiffening in instinctive defiance at the elder’s command.  He was Kain’s eldest, and knelt only to his sire!  

Reason, however, soon overcame instinct.  To break their bargain now would garner him no advantage, and would leave his brother helpless in the hands of an elder who had no reason to spare him pain.  Moving slowly, in reluctance as well as caution, he knelt between the elder’s legs, his skin prickling as the oil rose higher, lapping slickly against his stomach.  The plug pushed hard against the walls of his ass at the movement, prompting another shiver--then settled into a new position, the smooth base clasped tightly between tensed cheeks.  

Ignoring his lingering shame, Raziel kept his head high, even as he knelt.  He might have to obey the elder--for now--but that did not mean he would cringe and crawl in doing so.

The fledgling’s skin was whiter than the tile, save the places ash streaked his body, where old wounds had left gray-pink divots and runnels.  A band of skin around the fledgling’s lower arm was yet flushed, still tender where the bones beneath continued to knit.  Rumbling approbation, Vorador reached out, talons curving over the sponge.  The knobby fiber soaked up the thin oil as readily as water.  “Close your eyes,” the ancient growled, catching Raziel’s chin lightly to hold the fledgling steady.  And then Vorador applied the sponge to one cheek, washing away the pinkish tracks left by bloodied tears.  The warm liquid trickled in rivulets down Raziel’s chest and back, then more as Vorador set to rinsing the worst of the filth from the fledgling’s hair.  

He’d forgotten how soft a fledgling’s flesh could be, Vorador realized, indulging himself in touch as he stroked the dirt and imperfections from the whelp’s skin, pausing occasionally to wring out the sponge.  Raziel had already started to develop some degree of dermal armor, though not enough to really be felt through Vorador’s own thick hide.  But the softness, the pliant give, the satin-sleek smoothness -- those the elder could sense, and appreciate.  This was better by far than handling a statue, or even a work of art from the forge, for the surface flexed and lived and was perfect all the same.  Vorador squeezed the sponge out into the pool again, let it fill with clean oil, and reapplied it to shoulder and chest, handling each part of the fledgling’s body with the skill of long practice, cleaning each arm, each dark-nailed hand.  

Blood did not dissolve in oil quite like it might in water -- the dried flakes shed from Raziel’s skin floated across the surface of the pool for a short time, then sank, drawn down to a multitude of fine hidden sieves by unseen currents, which cleared the pool of contaminants quickly.   Vorador wound an arm around the fledgling’s waist, stroked the sponge down the whelp’s flanks and muscled stomach, the thought of his own seed still filling that belly, injected deep, a wholly pleasing one.  Submerged thighs, buttocks, calves, the arch of each foot and the spread of toes -- and then Vorador leaned back to survey his work and the fledgling’s glistening skin.  Much better, he decided, cupping the fledgling’s cock and balls in a leathery hand, the better to apply the sponge there, too.

Raziel had tensed at the first touch of the sponge, wary of further manhandling.  But when the elder did nothing but bathe the grime from his flesh, he relaxed by slow degrees, aided by the warm oil that lapped around them both.  It was difficult to relax completely--the too-recent memory of pain and pleasure both still lingered, as did the press of the elder vampire’s aura--the power lapping about them, lending a metallic snap to the air he could almost taste, a palpable pressure upon his skin, like the weight of the air before a storm.  Such potency commanded obedience and submission--it did not invite reassurance.  But the sure strokes of the oil-soaked sponge over his skin were a seduction all their own, cleaning him of filth and the leftover tang of his own fear, and leaving slow, slick pleasure in their wake.

Obedient to Vorador’s command, Raziel kept his eyes closed, even when the sponge had moved on to other portions of his body.  This close, he did not need eyes to be able to sense every shift and movement of the muscular body before him.  Deciding to risk the elder’s indulgence, Raziel broke his silence.  

“May … I ask a question?” he said carefully--then sucked in a breath, tensing again as talons cupped the fragile flesh of his genitals, calloused skin and razored edges flirting with the delicate skin.

“It appears you already have,” Vorador rumbled, in a finer humor than he’d experienced for years.  Decades, perhaps.  The fledgling’s soft organ twitched a little, despite Raziel’s unease, as Vorador applied the sponge with care for tender flesh.  That reminded Vorador of the instruction he had promised the whelp, a notion still more pleasing.  Perhaps he would permit the youngling a device of his choosing....  “But what can another hurt?  Speak, fledgling.”  

Raziel hesitated, wary of the elder’s temper.  But ignorance was just as dangerous as knowledge, in this case, and he had to take the chance.  “...who are you?  I thought--I believed we were the only ones left.”  The Sarafan had been most thorough in their bloody work, that he knew for sure.  And Kain, until that last day in Freeport, had never mentioned another ….

Silence, for a single long second.  Then Vorador threw back his head, his bark of laughter a roar that made the oil around Raziel’s skin vibrate in subtle response to the sonic force.  “Who -- who am I?  Ah, fledgling.  You mean to tell me...”  Vorador shook his heavy-planed head, expression still managing to communicate wry amusement.  One last swipe of the sponge, perhaps a little rougher, and Vorador released his captive’s softest flesh, letting the sponge float beside them while he leaned back to survey the fledgling.  “Well.  Perhaps you have little reason to know, after all,” he admitted, and paused a moment in thought.  “I am descended of Janos Audron -- mayhaps you have heard *that* name?  Suffice it to say, then, that I was old to the world, and jaded, long ere your Sire greeted the night.  Take up the sponge and attend me -- you may as well be useful, as well as curious.”       

“Janos Audron?”  Raziel opened his eyes, surprised.  “Truly?  I thought … I thought he was just a human myth.”  The great vampire bogeyman, until he was finally slain by the Sarafan and the Heart of Darkness torn from his chest.  To hear the humans tell it, it had been their greatest triumph, the defeat of a great evil.  Of course, being one of the ‘cursed abominations’ himself, Raziel had always viewed such stories with great skepticism.

A glance, and he took up the sponge from where it floated in the oil beside them.  Vorador’s flesh was not nearly so begrimed as his own--it was obvious that the elder vampire had cleansed himself since their battle in Freeport--and for a moment Raziel was not certain where he should start.  Finally settling upon the portions of that muscled frame that were easiest to reach, he began stroking the sponge tentatively over the nearest shoulder and arm, squeezing oil over malachite skin.  

Vorador’s own sulphur gaze slitted with pleasure as the fledgling edged closer, began his hesitant ablutions.  “A myth?  Hardly.  The mortals know nothing of him.  You may press more firmly, fledgling -- I will not break.”  The strokes were slow, tentative, unpracticed, albeit charming.  No great surprise that, for without a deepearth well such as this, Kain’s brood was probably forced to bathe with pungent distilled alcohol, and filling any large basin with that substance was no small task.  Another light pass, oil trickling down his hide, and Vorador lifted a heavy hand, cupped it over the fledgling’s own, demonstrating the firmness he preferred.

Raziel stilled as the taloned hand pressed down on his own--but once it withdrew again, continued in his task, frowning a little in concentration as he pressed the sponge harder against the elder’s skin.  His strokes would be considered rough by any human estimation, enough to scour soft skin raw--even his brethren would likely snarl and squirm in discomfort under such force.  But Vorador not only made no objections, but in fact stretched out a bit, obviously luxuriating in the attentions.  

“So Janos … was your Sire?” he asked tentatively.  “Did he make others as well?”  Did Vorador have brothers, just as he did?  Were there other ancients in hiding as well?

Vorador spread his arms along the edge of the pool, exposing more of his flanks to the fledgling’s touch.  The skin there was rougher than across his chest, rising in scales in some places, as if Vorador wore scalemail over plate.  Being scrubbed clean by cantrip was no pleasure at all, compared with this.  The elder’s golden eyes were slitted with enjoyment.  “He did not.”  Vorador said in reply, a little wryly.  “You need not fear being snatched from my grasp by family infighting.”

“So … there are no others.”  Despite his best efforts, a little of the disappointment leaked into Raziel’s voice.  They had been alone for so long … Vorador’s sudden appearance, his raw power, had kindled a tiny hope that perhaps he had been wrong, that there were other vampires out there, hiding as they were.  Waiting to strike against the Sarafan just as Kain did. 

But his sire had told them the truth.  There were no other vampires left;  just them--and apparently the elder before him.  Ducking his head, he scrubbed the remnants of blood and semen from the elder’s flanks, passing the sponge over iron-cabled, scaled hips and thighs.  The muscles beneath that fine-scaled skin were solid as granite, utterly inhuman and unyielding, intimidating in their obvious power.

The corner of Vorador’s mouth turned up slightly;  the elder cracked one eye open to regard the fledgling.  “Do I sense dismay, little knight?” he murmured, the words heavy with an irony beyond Raziel’s understanding.  The muscles under Raziel’s hand flexed, a smooth slide, inexorable as a great python’s coiling as Vorador sat more erect and twisted, exposing more of his back to the fledgling’s touch, apparently without any kind of reservation.  Not that there was any cause for fear -- the fine scales on Vorador’s flanks thickened to heavier plates over his back, a fan of heavy armor as distinct and distinctive as the spread of a cobra’s hood.  “But yes, I believe you correct.  There are none of whom I am aware, save your kin.”

Heeding the unspoken command, Raziel rose from his kneeling position, moving to one side so that he might better scrub down that broad back.  “I see,” he murmured.  It seemed folly to him that the sole remaining ancient vampire would pit himself against Kain, especially when they were so few against a world full of humans all too eager to see them all extinguished.  He was not so foolhardy as to say so aloud, however.  Such impertinence was unlikely to do anything but once again spark the elder’s wrath and shred the fragile peace they now shared.

Instead he held his tongue, and turned his attentions to the fascinating plates that shifted underneath the skin, moving subtly with each twist and flexion of Vorador’s spine.  It was like nothing he had ever seen;  every inch of the elder’s body had been changed, armored and evolved into that of a peerless predator, leaving almost nothing left to show he had ever been human.  Was Vorador unique in this, or was this the eventual fate of any vampire lucky enough to survive to such an unfathomable age?  And if so--how did the Sarafan ever manage to pull down such puissant creatures, to reduce the vampire scourge into nothing?

Vorador moved a little more as Raziel applied himself to the elder’s back, resettling himself belly down, heavy head pillowed on arms folded upon the edge of the pool, apparently not discomforted by the edges of the steps crossing his chest and stomach and thighs.  The scrape of the sponge was enchanting -- the accidental scrape of the fledgling’s sharp nails even moreso, reaching hidden itches long-ignored.  The fledgling took his time over back, thigh, and leathery hooves, attending one side of the elder’s body, then moving around to the other.  The warmth of the liquid sank deep, warming cold bones.  Vorador’s greenish hide gradually absorbed some of the oil, rough places smoothing, dull places brightening by fractions, responding like steel properly cared for after long neglect.  

The sponge, however, did not last long upon such a surface.  An incautious pass up the length of Vorador’s spine -- each vertebrae armored by an overlapping thick plate-like scale -- shredded one side of the fluffy material, bits of it falling into the pool, or left clinging to the sharp edges of raised scales.   

Raziel hissed a little in dismay as the sponge tore.  No doubt the elder could well afford another, but such things were luxuries, imported on the great sailing ships--he should have been more cautious in its use!  He quickly plucked the torn pieces from the surface of the oil, before they could be sucked away into whatever mysterious mechanisms circulated the liquid, and set himself to removing any remaining shreds from the surface of the elder’s skin.  Plucking a last bit from the edge of a gleaming scale, he smoothed fingers down the oiled skin, and decided there was no help for it--he would have to ask. 

“My lord--the sponge does not seem to … be adequate.  Would you prefer I use a cloth instead?”  In truth, most of the languid body before him had been well-cleansed at this point.  But the elder showed no sign that he was inclined to move, and had not told him to cease his ministrations, either.

The elder’s golden gaze slit open, alien with an intent at odds with his pleasurably relaxed form.  A pity the dense fiber had worn out, but then -- “No, fledgling.  Another plaything, I think.  Something more... durable.”  He moved like Kain moved, one instant still and the next turning with a grace beyond reason in so large a body, nothing mortal left in him.  The thin oil heaved and splashed as Vorador sat up, gesturing Raziel closer.  “There is, after all, still the matter of the commandment you were unable to obey, is there not?”       

A prickle of trepidation went down his spine.  Raziel, however, knew better than to show it.  Lifting his head proudly, he moved back within easy reach of those talons and knelt once more, shoving away the urge to flee those heavy-lidded, inhuman eyes.  

“...durable?” he asked, already dreading Vorador’s likely answer.

“Oh indeed.  Steel, I think,” Vorador rumbled, darkly amused with the fledgling and at the wariness he could see behind the youngling’s amber eyes.  The fledgling was kneeling in a very pleasing fashion;  Vorador reached with undercurved talons to improve on the arrangement, just slightly. He ran the back of his talons under Raziel’s chin, tilting it just a little.  “Shoulders back,” he murmured, passing his palms down Raziel’s chest and seed-filled belly, to the flanks and lower, where he cupped the fledgling’s hips to angle them forward.  “Hands fisted at your side -- there,” Vorador nodded a little to himself in satisfaction as the whelp settled into perfect stance, eager and ready, unbowed, yet hinting at submission.  Vorador leaned back to survey his captive -- breathtaking, really.  

He was wrong.  The fledgling would be presented best in a yellow metal, not steel.  Gold, perhaps?  Copper?  Reaching out, Vorador picked up the tray the whelp had brought him, divesting it of the towels and stoneware.  He passed his hand across it, summoning some manner of objects, metal clicking on summoned metal.  Then Vorador proffered the tray atop one splayed hand.  “You may select one,” the elder said, clearly a command rather than an invitation.

It was... difficult to determine what the objects might be, exactly.  One was a collection of metal rings, varying in size, held together by a jumble of tooled leather straps.  The next was a loose metal basket of sorts, wide enough for two fingers and a little longer, formed of engraved bands of metal.  A thick wire extended from the bottom.  The last looked something like a flower, or perhaps a miniature iron maiden, a hinged set of elaborate metal forms, presently open.  The inside was smooth, save where it was studded with sharply-cut jewels, each of them catching and refracting the light which fell upon them.  

Raziel took in the selection with no small amount of trepidation.  He was no innocent--as Kain’s first (and for almost a decade, only) progeny, he had learned well what was required in submitting to his sire’s … attentions.  Beatings he knew well, as well as the binding of limbs and genitals both with leather straps, the ever-shifting boundaries of his own pain and Kain’s pleasure having been well-explored over the years.  But these--he could surmise that they were meant to be bindings of some kind, but could not fathom what exactly such contrivances were supposed to *do*.  Or, more importantly, which was likely to be the least painful.  

He glanced up at the waiting elder, hoping somehow to find some manner of guidance in which he was supposed to choose.  Did Vorador have a preference, and was simply waiting to punish him if Raziel chose wrongly?  If so, there seemed to be no way to tell--the elder’s expression might have been carved of marble for all that it revealed.  Only the barest hint of patient amusement and anticipation was evident, and Raziel turned back to the proffered tray with a resigned air.  

He hesitated for a moment more--then made his choice.  Raziel pointed to the third device--the elaborately decorated and hinged metal piece.  “.... that one, my lord?”  He was not sure what it did, or how it was meant to fit, but it seemed as good a choice as any.  He watched Vorador’s heavy-planed face out of the corner of his eye, wondering if he’d chosen well or ill.

“An interesting choice, fledgling.”  Vorador’s jade talons closed around the articulated piece of metal, and he set the others aside along with their tray.  The thing was like a flower in his hand, the petals laid open, dewed with diamonds.  “I do approve... though...” Vorador lifted his free hand, cupping his heavy-leathered palm under the whelp’s cock and balls, soft now, but so wantonly displayed, just above the surface of the pool. “...you may come to regret it, before the end.  Hold still --” he commanded in a deep rumble, feeling the fledgling’s body stiffen.   

The metal was cold as it slid under Raziel’s testicles, fitting snugly at the very base of him.  Clever talon tips drew linked bands up and did... something to hook them together, forming a band that encircled the whole of the fledgling’s genitals.  The hold was firm, but far from unpleasant, like having fingers wrapped around him, holding his organs more prominently forward.  Then, one by one, Vorador closed the jeweled petals around his cock, locking each leaf with its neighbors, until Raziel was encased entirely in gold, save only for a small opening at the tip.  The outside of the device was heavy with decoration -- gold and copper roses, twined with tiny ruby-eyed dragons.  On the inside, the cut edges of the jewels were a faintly tickling pressure, just in a few places, against his cock -- scarcely enough to feel, especially with the light coating of slippery oil.  

“There,” Vorador murmured, letting the cage go slowly.  It was fairly heavy, and tugged on him, though not badly.  “Comfortable, fledgling?  Before I permit you respite for the evening, I will loop a chain from here,” his talontip indicated a ring near the base of the contraption, “over your hips, and through the base of your plug, to take some of the weight.  But first, I believe a demonstration of this training instrument is in order.”  

Raziel had forced himself to remain still as his cock was enclosed, shivering only a little as chilly metal embraced tender, oil-warmed flesh.  At the moment, at least, there was no pain, though the elder’s words were not reassuring.  Even so, having his genitals displayed so openly, the cage jutting them slightly further outward from his body, encased in gold and inlay, was both arousing and shameful.  It made him feel as if he were somehow a prize that Vorador had won, another object to adorn this manse and be used upon a whim;  and at the same time, felt oddly … protected.  Confined, yes, constrained--but also locked away from harm, as if the cage were part of a suit of armor.  Such an idea was utterly false, he knew--the delicate interlocking leaves of the metal sleeve about his cock would could not possibly hope to withstand the grip of Vorador’s talons, should the elder be minded to crush it and the softer flesh within.  But still … the feeling persisted.

Fists clenched tight at his side, Raziel looked up at Vorador’s face.  Between the metal plug still held tight between his cheeks and the metal now encircling his cock, it almost felt as if his body was no longer his own, but had been invaded, claimed bit by bit by another.  Did the elder mean to take him again?  A ripple of unseen apprehension shivered down his spine at the thought.

Vorador paused a moment to survey what he had wrought, with pleasure.  He toyed for a moment with the idea of further entrapping the fledgling, strapping him into a webbed harness, binding him like the prey of a great spider for Vorador’s slow, venomous delectation over the course of days... but no, no.  Not yet. 

“Well done, fledgling,” Vorador rumbled, gesturing the fledgling around to kneel close by the elder’s right side, even as he reached out to select one of the soft lengths of suede the fledgling had brought from the other side of the pool.  His talons closed around his own cock, lifted his length from the warm embrace of the pool.  Vorador stroked the fabric down his own length, cleaning himself of oil, and then tossing the suede aside.  He gestured for Raziel’s clenched fists, and placed those soft human fingers where he wanted them, so that his flesh should not slip back into the oil.  “Give me your hands -- there.  Now.  Prepare me well, fledgling -- for if your hands and clever tongue prove adequate, I will fill your belly with my seed.  And if not... then I will simply mount you again, and fill you that way.  Am I understood?”

\--

 

 

 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

Raziel nodded silently, not trusting his voice.   The heavy malachite flesh cradled in his hands only reinforced the threat--even soft, the sheer size of the elder’s cock was intimidating.  There was no possible way that he would be able to take that cock into his mouth while erect;  not without the removal of his fangs, not to mention dislocating his jaw.  He would not put it past Vorador to do either of those things, however, should his service prove inadequate.  

Shifting his grip slightly so that he cradled that weight in his palms, he leaned forward, bending his head.  He was at a disadvantage in that he did not know what kind of caresses the elder preferred, what manner of touches and strokes would most swiftly bring him pleasure.  He could only hope that Vorador would allow him the latitude to experiment.  Opening his mouth, he breathed out softly over the slowly stirring erection, as if warming the cool flesh.  Then, delicately, he tilted his head and licked a tantalizing stripe over the broad, blunt head.  First one lick, then another, rousing the cock clasped within his hands with a myriad of  tiny, maddening sweeps, using only the tip of his tongue, never lingering in the same spot even as he endeavored to learn which areas garnered the most response.

Vorador leaned back, spreading his arms along the rim of the pool, permitting the fledgling room enough to work.  The first warm breath was a pleasurable surprise, but then came the thorough, methodical little taps, touches, teasing strokes that spread hot golden pleasure in their wake.  The tip of Raziel’s tongue found the small spines, soft now, arrayed like a crown around the rim of the head, and flicked under them, slicking over the tender juncture of head and shaft, and Vorador sucked in a hard breath.  His organ twitched as if it sought blindly for more, gradually flushing, darkening.  The gentle exploration was beyond maddening.

Gasping aloud at another little flickering touch, the fledgling’s tongue toying at the little slit near the tip of his cock, Vorador lifted his hand to card his talons slowly through the fledgling’s slicked hair, a careful caress, no force behind it.  “Yes... just there -- ah!”  Kain had clearly been most thorough in his spawn’s instruction, Vorador discovered -- in this, at least, for there was talent in that tongue.  The elder smoothed his palm down the nape of the whelp’s neck, stroking down his back, the curve of buttocks, talon tips finding the butt of the plug that wedged the fledgling open.

Noting each reaction, every small sound, Raziel began concentrating his attentions upon that broad head.  Lapping at the soft hooded flesh, exploring every one of the tiny spines that had tormented him earlier.  Vorador’s cock tasted like nothing he’d ever known before;  there was the familiar scent of undead flesh, overlaid with the muted leftover tang of the oil.  But under that … there was a smokey edge to the taste, a metallic tang upon the tongue, as if the elder had spent so much time in armor-plate that it had become a part of him.  As the soft flesh began to harden and lift beneath his ministrations, Raziel indulged in that taste, measuring dimensions of Vorador’s burgeoning erection with slow, luxuriant sweeps of his tongue.  The tickle of talons over his flesh was both distracting and familiar, and he continued, shivering a little in instinctive reaction as they swept possessively over his skin.

The touches were broader strokes now, laving, swirling slowly over the sensitive places, the fledgling’s hands still wrapped firmly around the base of Vorador’s cock.  It was enchanting, enthralling -- he had forgotten how very, very good this could be.  A probing lick at the divot just under the head made him gasp.  

The fledgling deserved a reward, of sorts, for such fine attention to duty.  Vorador found the hilt end of the fledgling’s plug with his talon tips and slowly, very slowly, began to withdraw it.  The thing slipped out, one knob at a time, sliding smoothly in the oil and fluids that Vorador had forced inside the whelp’s lovely tight body.  Despite the stretching it had received so recently, the fledgling’s hole clung to each place the plug narrowed, reluctant to let the metal free.  All but the tip now outside, Vorador toyed with the plug for a time, angling it, twisting it, teasing the little ring of muscle.  Then he adjusted the angle a little, carefully, with the precision of long experience, and began to press the phallus -- now slick with mineral oil as well -- back inside, faster than he’d withdrawn it.     

Raziel stiffened, shuddering convulsively at the slow withdrawal of the plug, and the inexorable plunge of it back into his tender flesh.  A groan escaped him, half-protest and half-arousal, vibrating against the hardening flesh of Vorador’s cock as the phallus slid slickly into his ass.  The slow stretch of the toy was distracting, maddening--and only hard-learned discipline kept him focused on his task.  The elder’s flesh was certainly not slow to rise, already more than half-hard under his ministrations, and Raziel wrapped both hands around that burgeoning length, carefully dragging black-nailed fingertips over the rising ridges.  The elder’s body stiffened, but there was no snarl of angry warning.  Encouraged, Raziel lapped at the dark-flushed head, doing his best to cradle it upon a slick tongue, daring to lap and suckle at the very tip as if he were a nursing babe.  

Vorador’s golden eyes were slitted with enjoyment, with pleasure at the fledgling’s attentions.  He would have been hard pressed to say which was better -- the whelp’s nimble tongue or his tight little hole;  both were extraordinary.  And then Raziel began to suckle at the tip of him, mouthing him there, and the elder gasped aloud.  The heavy cock twitched in Raziel’s hands like a thing breathed to life, a slickness that tasted like raw-cleaved iron gathering, seeping from the slit.  Vorador was almost fully erect, hard enough to mount a squirming fledgling, before the head of his cock began to engorge to the monstrous proportions Raziel had so painfully experienced.  The glans flushed nearly black, the hood drew back to further expose the rim of tormenting little spines.  Beneath Raziel’s palms, the subtle pattern of scales and ridges began to lift, hardening.    

Pausing from time to time, the better to savor a particularly fine lick or nibble or an enchanting brush of clawtips, Vorador worked the plug in and out of the fledgling’s ass a few more times, searching for just the right angle, twisting the knobbly toy deep inside.  Several times he released the hilt in order to stroke Raziel’s hair or the line of his back, forcing the fledgling to clamp down or risk losing the plug.  Then he returned to the phallus, to toy with it -- and Raziel’s control -- yet again.   

Vorador’s practiced attentions were impossible to ignore, and Raziel did his best not to writhe as he continued with his suckling caresses, torn between pushing into the impalement and flinching away.  The measured withdrawal and thrust of the phallus was slow, but irregular--there was no rhythm that he could anticipate or fortify himself against.  Only the unyielding metal, opening him again and again, sparking painful pleasure with each new thrust until his cock began to rise, pressing against its metal confinement.

Then, with a practiced twist the phallus sank deep, prodding hard against that sensitive node within and sparking a fireburst of pleasure.  Raziel keened, instinctively curving his back and pushing his ass higher in mute supplication, opening himself, pushing into that impalement.    The sudden shuddering jolt was enough to make him gasp, lifting his mouth away from the well-slicked head of Vorador’s cock.  Then, wishing only to encourage more such attentions, he redoubled his efforts, lapping at slick droplets of precome, one hand slipping down past the base of the elder’s flesh to cradle and caress the heavy balls that lay beneath.  The skin here was soft, unarmored as it was almost nowhere else, and Raziel purred low in his throat as he drew fingertips over the delicate, wrinkled skin, learning every inch.

Vorador started slightly, a near-unnoticable twitch, as smooth, soft fingers slipped under his testicles, exploring thoroughly.  It had been... a very long time since any creature dared handle him so.  But the caresses were fine indeed, slowly growing more certain, a brighter counterpoint of pleasure to the sensuous bliss of the fledgling’s working mouth.  “Eager for it, aren’t you, whelp?”  Vorador murmured, rotating the plug so that the asymmetrical bumps of metal massaged the fledgling from the inside.  “Not two hours after you were taken, and already begging for it again... this side, perhaps?  Right... here?” the elder angled the phallus so that the more curved side faced the front of Raziel’s body, slowly withdrawing it nearly to the tip.  Then he plunged it in again, half way, and withdrew it, thrusting in shallow strokes for the same place that had jolted the fledgling so intensely.  

Under Raziel’s lips, Vorador’s cock had reached full hardness, the head flared like a clenched fist as if to lock it inside an unwilling partner’s body, the shaft frighteningly thick.  But no less sensitive -- Raziel’s attentions continued to draw his elder’s hissing approval, the swirl of fingertips and tongue alike drawing forth golden-hot bliss.       

Raziel shuddered, tremors betraying his pleasure as Vorador tormented him with the phallus, rubbing hard against the tender walls of his body.  His caresses stuttered for the first time, the steady stroke of fingers and tongue faltering as his cock rose, aching for release--only to be punished for its temerity, the diamond-hard points on the inside of the metal sheath digging cruelly into his engorged flesh.  The gemstone studs were small, but the pain they produced was all out of proportion to their size;  like pinpoints of fire, surrounding his sensitive cock and stabbing deep.  Another jolting thrust from the toy sent a new lightning-spike prickling over his skin, and Raziel groaned, feeling like nothing so much as a damned soul, forever caught between heaven and hell.  

Stoppering up his pleas before they could escape, Raziel bent his head over Vorador’s turgid flesh, opening his mouth to caress and suckle as much of that dark-flushed malachite flesh as possible.  Begging for mercy would only garner the elder’s ire, he knew;  his best chance at achieving his own release was to bend his will towards Vorador’s own pleasure, in the hopes that the elder would be satisfied enough to allow him his own.

The corner of his mouth turned up, Vorador watched the fledgling begin to squirm, every pulse of pleasure heightening the youngling’s pain.  So lovely -- the muscular flex, the way Raziel arched for more even as he flinched from the sheath around his cock, the ripple of back and thighs as the fledgling fought himself.  A pleasure to behold -- doubling the sensation raised by that trembling mouth.  

Vorador continued his cruel game for a time, keeping himself on edge -- when tormented too fiercely, the fledgling slowed his lashing tongue, when given a moment’s reprieve Raziel renewed his efforts to please.  But always that phallus plunged in again, and again.    “Tell me, fledgling,” Vorador rumbled, dark as molasses while Raziel writhed, “that cage -- it is small for you, perhaps?  Shall I leave it on?  Or is it loose, I wonder, in need of a little tightening....”

Dizzied with sensation, Raziel hardly knew how to respond.  That dark, low voice seemed to vibrate through his very bones, inescapable as the tide--but what answer could he give?  Were this his Sire, he knew that begging for release from the elder’s cruel toy would only invite further punishment--and yet, despite the pleasure of the phallus sliding slick and hard within him, the thought of his caged cock being tormented even further, the sheath locked tighter, was just as fearful.  

“It is--it is most commodious, my lord,” Raziel finally gasped, desperate for any reply, no matter how incoherent.  His cock felt as if it was wrapped in iron bands of purest pain, the jewelled studs stabbing deep with every twitch--but his erection never flagged, bound agonizingly tight by the metal band at its base.  “... and su--superbly well-fitted, I believe.”  A lie, of course, or perhaps the truth.  From a certain, and rather sadistic point of view ….

Vorador’s rumble shivered over the fledgling’s skin.  “Attend me with your hands, boy, while you speak,” he corrected, as Raziel quickly returned his perfectly bowed mouth to the head of the elder’s engorged cock.  So sweet, to see that dark tongue flicker out to lap over his flesh, to watch those severe lips part for this most obscene of kisses.  And the sensations... Vorador’s thighs flexed with his pleasure, groin tightening.  Close, very close, and the elder applied himself to distracting Raziel once more, the better to prolong his enjoyment.

Vorador twisted the plug again, tormenting the fledgling’s trembling little hole.  “What of this, then?”  Vorador said, working the toy out, slipping it in again, never quite predictable, never falling into a rhythm.   “Is it insufficient to fill you?  Something broader, longer... or perhaps you wish to kneel across my lap, to lower yourself down upon me, to ride me... just.  Like.  This.”  Long, heavy thrusts of the phallus.  “Is that what you need?  Answer me, fledgling.”

Long since tormented past any semblance of coherency, Raziel shuddered, rocking helplessly with each inescapable push into his body.  “P-please, my lord, I--”  Another thrust, and another stab of agony from his imprisoned flesh, and he bowed his head, his hands shaking even as they caressed the heavy flesh of Vorador’s cock.  “--I don’t nuh-know … I don’t …”  The words slipped from his tongue, and a wordless cry of frustration and need tore itself from his throat.  The warmed metal of the plug was unyielding, inescapable--he wanted more, but he couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t form the words to beg for his release ….

The vision the fledgling presented before him, the slow-twisting resistance, the writhing both into and away from the sensations assaulting his tender flesh, was so very, very beautiful.  A work of art, if only Vorador could capture it -- but then those sounds, those sighed and whimpered pleas... oh, glorious.  It was simply too much.  

“Yes...” Vorador hissed, closing his leathery palm around the back of Raziel’s head, forcing that beautiful mouth where he wanted it, thighs tense with the effort of refraining from just pushing himself past those parted lips.   _ Again, fledgling_, the whisper was more like a landslide than a thread, a slow sintering press of swamp and steel, a mental weight eons in the making.   _More.  Implore me to come in you;  beg to swallow my seed._

 _Please …_ The Whisper was fractured, incoherent with agonizing need.  Images sent in desperation when words failed--the taste of the elder’s seed, the slide of it down a waiting throat, lips and tongue working desperately to engulf the broad head of Vorador’s cock with singular, desperate focus ….  Raziel whined low in his throat, keening a little as he pushed frantically back at those taunting thrusts.  “need m-more, please, want you in me, want to take it--” he panted, lips brushing against Vorador’s erect flesh with each word.  “...m-my lord, I can’t--p-please!”  Anything to stop his torment and give him release …. 

Vorador meant to hold on a little longer, to drive the fledgling still closer to the edge... but those inchoate pleas were too much, too golden-sweet, the brush of fangs and sweep of eager tongue over the head of his cock too ardent, and all thought of control fell away.  With a hitching growl of pleasure, teeth gritted, the elder cupped Raziel’s head in both hands, hips shuddering, and came.  Pulses of thick, silver-pink fluid flooded the fledgling’s mouth, hot across his tongue, talons like steel bands keeping the whelp in place when he might have jerked away.    

Knowing his duty, Raziel swallowed desperately, mouth stretched wide over Vorador’s cock.  His fingers curled around the elder’s shaft, feeling the subtle jerks of Vorador’s climax, and tightened, stroking firmly to prolong the other vampire’s pleasure.  Despite his best efforts, small trickles escaped as he swallowed down Vorador’s seed, and there was nothing he could do to prevent it, unable to move in the grip of those talons.  All he could do was take, to suckle and swallow desperately, the metallic-salt taste of Vorador’s seed spreading over his tongue and down his throat until there was no more.  

Even then, his duty was not done, and Raziel continued to pay homage to the elder’s flesh, licking delicately at the head, cleaning every last trace of Vorador’s orgasm.  His fingers shook as they cradled the elder’s softening flesh--prevented from taking his own pleasure by the unyielding metal that tormented his cock, Raziel could only hope that Vorador felt kindly disposed enough to release him from his bondage ….   
  
Vorador’s breath shuddered from him as he relaxed back against the edge of the pool, grip slipping from the fledgling’s head, thoroughly and most pleasureably sated, rendered boneless as he’d not been for decades.  Clearly, he need not have doubted the whelp’s training in this regard, Vorador decided, lazily passing the pad of one thumb-talon over the fledgling’s cheek, where come, thick as an elder’s blood, had trickled.  How might the tedium of the ages be eased, with a fledgling such as this at his beck and call?  

But it did not bear thinking upon.  The eager sweeps of tongue over his cock soon became too intense a pleasure as the elder began to soften.  “Outstanding, whelp.  Enough, now -- come here.”  Talons an implacable grip around Raziel’s arm -- the unbroken one -- Vorador dragged the fledgling to sit straddling the elder’s knees, careful not to jar the golden cage overmuch.  There was no sense in ending the fledgling’s suffering prematurely by introducing too much pain, after all.  And there would be suffering -- if Vorador had calibrated the tightness just right, the fledgling could remain hard for hours, despite the agonizing press of gemstones into his most tender flesh.  Talon tips finding the butt of the phallus that kept the fledgling spread, Vorador began to draw the length of metal out, one bulge and knob at a time.  

Raziel shuddered, black-nailed fingers clawing into unyielding malachite flesh.  His legs, winged wide around Vorador’s own, tightened in mute resistence, his skin slick and dripping with oil.  “--ah!  P-please, my lord … I need ….” The phallus twisted within him, and his voice broke in a helpless cry.  His head fell forward, and he gulped for air in a vain effort to control the painful ecstasy that tremored through his flesh.  “... please lord--let me come?”  he finally begged, no longer capable of even the smallest remaining shred of dignity. 

“And interesting proposal, fledgling, one which bears some consideration,” Vorador rumbled, giving the plug one last teasing twist, and then eased it entirely from the fledgling’s clasping body.  The whelp’s little hole gaped and twitched, seeking something else to close around, and Vorador soon supplied it, dismissing the first phallus from his hand and plucking another from thin air -- this one gold and copper to match the cage.  It was shaped differently too, shorter, with a bulb a bit larger than an egg connected by a narrow stem to the hilt, which was adorned with a ring.  Vorador lifted the toy, in order that the fledgling might get a good look at the thing he’d be wearing for a time, and then brought the plug to tease again at the whelp’s little opening, slowly working it in.  

“Before I forget, fledgling,” Vorador said, rocking the plug, twisting it idly, “I wish to reassure myself of the adequacy of the rest of the skills your Sire has endeavored to instill.  At dawn, you will meet me in the red ballroom, on the first floor of this wing.”  He forced the widest part of the plug through, relishing the whelp’s writhing, the scrape of fledgling claws over his chest.  “The chamber is outfitted for swordplay.  Am I understood?”  A little deeper, and the ring of Raziel’s ass closed down around the narrow stem of the plug.    

“...swordplay?” Raziel repeated dumbly, his thoughts too fractured by pain and need for coherency.  Why was the elder speaking of battle, when every nerve and sinew within him screamed for release?  The gilded plug pushed all the way in, its girth stretching the walls of his ass wide, even as his hole closed about the thinner neck, and Raziel shuddered, pushing into it in a vain attempt at relief.  “... I do not … do not understand, please, my lord …”  Did Vorador mean to leave him like this?  He would have prayed otherwise, if there existed any gods that listened to a creature such as he ...

“Indeed.”  Vorador lifted a hand, producing from the air a fine chain.  The links were each smaller than the last joint of Raziel’s littlest finger, and hammered flat, so that the length of chain slid smoothly over the skin, supple as a golden serpent.  Vorador threaded one end through the ring of the plug.  “Until then, you and your brother both may find such clothing as you care to don in the chambers of this wing.  You may explore as you please, where the doors open to your hand.  I might suggest the library.  You may find it conducive to a more... meditative state of mind.” Vorador ran the end of the chain through the small ring atop the cage and snapped the links together, linking the sheath and the plug together.  The arrangement took some of the cage’s weight, perhaps made it fractionally easier to bear.  But the chain over Raziel’s flanks also pulled the plug a little deeper inside, making the thing twitch with every movement of the fledgling’s hips.  “I think you will need it, for though I have considered your proposal, I find myself... unconvinced.”  

Raziel snarled, his temper pricked by the elder’s condescension and his own unsatisfied need.  “Wh-what more do you want of me?” he demanded, wishing he could quell the fine shivers that wracked his body with each twitch and shift of the plug, each painful movement of his metal-sheathed cock.  Had he not done all that was asked of him without complaint?  He had offered his service to Vorador as he had to no other save his Sire, opening his body to whatever torments the elder might devise, abandoning his pride … what more could he possibly give?  

Fingers curved into makeshift claws, Raziel pushed himself away from those talons, heedless of what it cost him in pain.  “I am not a beast, to snap after some baited lure, and I will not be played for a fool!  If my efforts are so worthless, then be done with it and let us go!”

Vorador sighed briefly, pushed aside a flailing handful of short fledgling talons, and bundled the youngling bodily up under one arm as he stood, all a single motion, immensely powerful.  Given the whelp’s surprising strength and current abandon, he could easily score the marble of the baths with those claws, and Vorador did so hate buffing out scratches.  Thin, warm oil sheeted from their bodies, splashing as Raziel twisted -- but the arm around his waist was like a python’s implacable coil.  “We did not bargain for your pleasure, whelp,” Vorador grumbled, hooves finding sure purchase as he stepped from the pool, “rather for permission to attend your brethren -- contingent on your tractability.”  Vorador gestured, a spark of telekinesis bringing a dry length of suede to hand, and with it he began roughly toweling the clinging oil from Raziel’s hair.  His words were without any particular venom; Vorador had sired far too often to be dismayed by a fledgling’s inherently immediate view of the world.  Frankly, this one’s self control in most things was better than average for a young vampire, one not, what?  Forty years old, perhaps?   Quite astonishing, really.  “Which, I admit, you have delivered dutifully until now.  Your sibling is down the hallway from the place you awoke.  Third floor.  As I said, you may roam as you please until dawn, when I will require you again.”  

Vorador set his prize’s feet on the glossy tile, keeping a secure grip on the fledgling’s shoulder.   “And, Raziel.  At that time, I should be most displeased to discover that you had tampered in any manner with your... adornments.”

Abruptly set upon his feet once more, Raziel stifled another flinch as the sudden movement pulled painfully upon his constricted cock.  He eyed his captor warily from under the dishevelled strands of his hair, unsure whether to trust the elder vampire’s assurances.  “... and he will not be harmed?”  For access was only one half of their bargain--all Raziel’s efforts would be for nothing if the elder vampire took it upon himself to play his games with his brother’s more fragile flesh.  

Buried in the back of his mind was the apprehensive thought of what Vorador might require of him in the morning, and the torturous sensations his ‘adornments’ were likely to visit upon him in the hours between--but right now all his attention was upon the capricious creature before him. 

“Hn.  Clever creature,” Vorador rumbled, cuffing the side of Raziel’s head -- very lightly, a cupping brush of rough leather over soft fledgling skin.  “But -- yes.  Provided you make appropriate efforts to remain... pliable, I shall not directly harm him.  And that --” Vorador raised a broad talon, “will have to be enough for you.  Now.  Other duties command my attention for the moment; I trust you can find your way.”  Vorador dropped the length of suede over Raziel’s bare shoulder, and lifted his hand, gathering the energies to teleport in his palm, like a balled net.

Having gained what he had so desperately bargained for, Raziel found himself suddenly unsure, wondering if this was perhaps another trick.  But the elder vampire’s good humor seemed to be genuine, even in the face of Raziel’s temper;  if there was trickery afoot, he could not see it.  Feeling the gathering surge of the elder’s magic, he dipped his chin in a wary nod.  “I can, my lord.”

“I expect you will,” Vorador said, words weighty with more meaning than could be immediately fathomed, and then added more mundanely -- “wipe your feet before you venture across my rugs.”  Then he was gone in a flash of electric blue, leaving nothing but a concussive breeze as the air rushed to fill the place he’d been, and Raziel was alone under the blank eyes of the four outsized stone carvings of winged men.    

The cavernous bathing chamber seemed to echo the sudden silence, broken only by the faint lap of the pool.  There were evidently a number of resident magics in effect here, for the oil that dripped onto the tile slowly coagulated and trickled back into the bath, and the illumination of the great arched ceiling never dimmed. 

Favoring the empty space where the elder had been moments before with a silent snarl, Raziel glanced around tensely, making sure he was indeed alone.  He had yet to see any other vampires, or indeed any kind of slaves or servitors at all, but caution had served him well in the past.  Once satisfied that he was truly alone, he took the sueded cloth the elder had discarded upon his shoulder and scrubbed roughly at his skin to remove the lingering film of oil.  The touch of the cloth was painful upon his oversensitized flesh, as were the sharp stabs of agony from his ‘adornments’ with each twist and bend of his body.  Setting his back teeth, he suffered through it, scouring himself with the cloth as if to punish his body for its weakness. 

Once Raziel was as clean as he was ever likely to be--including his feet--he set the cloth aside.  Vorador’s intentions could not be trusted, this he knew.  Still, he was unlikely to have a better opportunity to scout out the confines of his prison, or to find his brother.  

Ignoring his nudity, he padded towards the arched entrance of the bathing room, bare feet silent upon the polished marble floor.

  



	9. Chapter 9

The doors to the rest of the manse were tall as three men, carved and richly inlaid as was almost everything else here. The heavy ironwood panels were already ajar, though when Raziel placed his hand upon the edge of one he found that it swung easily, perfectly counterbalanced. As he set foot on the soft, thick padding of the hallway carpeting, the lights behind him began to fade, replaced by an equal glow from ahead. Moving silently, Raziel ghosted past old tapestries woven in gold, rich with scenes of the hunt and of feasting. One, in shades of blue and green that should have been impossible to obtain in dye, depicted sea life, from tiny gem-glowing fish to the sucker-armed tentacle-thing which had so enthralled Rahab.

Two short steps, and the broad corridor emptied out into another huge chamber, this one outfitted something like a sitting room. It was ringed by a gilded balcony upon which opened more normal-sized doors, and the ceiling... at first, it appeared painted with a scene of the night sky, but glass caught and reflected the light in a way that paint could not. Yet the ceiling was huge -- surely it was impossible that the whole of it could be made of nothing but jointed plates of glass!

There was evidence of old revelries here, broken or upended bottles, exquisite furniture disarrayed, flaking cinnamon stains on discarded articles of clothing, many of which were tailored in a style that Raziel had never seen. Pillows, dyed in browns and crossed by ribbons of braided gold, were scattered everywhere, matching the hues of the layered rugs and the warm, polished woodwork. More doorways framed this lower level, some of the wooden panels left open and some closed, as if the entire wing had been very abruptly abandoned.

One end of the room was largely occupied by a fireplace, tall enough to walk into and wide enough to roast several cattle side by side. It was laid with wood, a little charred, but no fire now danced there. At the other end, a broad staircase led upwards.

Raziel could not help but feel a bit like a mouse creeping through a palace; the scale of the halls and doors alone was intimidating, to say nothing of the utter luxury evidenced in each gilded cornice and marble tile, each velvet drapery and ornate work of art. Vorador evidently saw no reason for a vampire not to enjoy all the luxuries the world had to offer, and for Raziel--who had slept in beds of bracken and upon the stone floors of tumbled ruins more often than not--the very idea that all this could belong to a vampire, albeit one puissant enough to revel in his wealth and power with impunity, was a staggering revelation.

Leaving the upper floor alone for now, he warily began to explore the lower floors. It seemed that this area was not one the elder vampire frequented often--while there was none of the filth and leaf-strewn debris of true abandonment, a fine layer of dust covered everything, dulling the gleam of the floors under his feet and rubbing off upon his fingertips. Whatever magics Vorador had invoked to clean the pool area had apparently faded here from disuse. Yet there were no other signs of decay; fabrics remained plush and devoid of moth-holes, silverwork only lightly tarnished and not black with age, and ironwork devoid of even a trace of rust. Sadly, that ironwork apparently did not include weapons; short of a few statues or fireplace implements, he found no weapons anywhere in the silent and echoing rooms. Not a crossbow, a sword, a dagger--not even so much as an eating-knife. It had been foolish to expect such, Raziel knew, but the had still secretly hoped that the elder might have overlooked *something* that could be used against him. As it was, if he were to attack Vorador it would have to be either with his bare hands or a makeshift club, neither of which was likely to achieve anything except the elder’s anger and his own demise.

In another spacious, echoing room Raziel found a wardrobe and clothing within, and explored what it had to offer, doing his best to ignore the ominous patter of rain against the leaded glass of the windows. Most of the clothes were both ornate and unfamiliar, in a variety of sizes and with an overabundance of elaborate buckles and ties. Hardly clothes in which to run or to fight! Finally, however, he found a silken tunic. Dyed vivid scarlet and adorned with traces of embroidery, it was still by far the simplest garb he could find. More importantly, it fit without hampering his movements or pressing overmuch against oversensitized skin, as did the loose pair of dark trousers he found a few moments later.

The clothing was scant armor, but it was something--and more importantly, he no longer felt quite as on display as he had been before. When nothing else of use turned up in the room, he headed out once more. If--*when* he found his brother, they could return, if they needed to.

It took a bit more searching before Raziel achieved his goal--this manse was far more labyrinthine than he had thought at first glance! But in a shadowed dark hallway lined with doors, he finally spotted another open archway, with a terrified human chained across from it--and beyond it, the rattle of metal and the hiss of an angry fledgling. Raziel quickened his step. “Rahab? Zephon?” he called aloud, knowing an angry--and likely hungry--fledgling was unlikely to be able to muster enough concentration to Whisper. “Are you there?” He paused as he reached the archway, warily extending fingertips to the open space, expecting the scorching rebuke of a ward. When nothing happened, he took a wary step within, night-adapted eyes searching for his brother.

The chamber Raziel entered, like many of the other living quarters he’d explored, had apparently once housed a woman, to judge by the flowing drapes and tapestries. And the masses of delicate white lace and satin, all that remained of a wardrobe of once-fine apparel, the fabrics thoroughly and violently shredded and now stirring like heaps of gossamer-ragged snow, blown by the humid breeze off the balcony. A distant bolt of lightning over the swamp spread momentary illumination, highlighting a pattern of winged cherubs engraved on the cornices -- plump babes with beatific smiles, their hands and feet three-clawed, -- fine aspen furniture now shattered, a marble fawn laying decapitated, a small brass key on an unbroken table near Raziel... and across the room, a silvered coil of chain.

And then the lightning flash was gone, its sudden absence spoiling even a vampire’s night vision for a moment. A laggard rumble of thunder grumbled through the stones underfoot, nearly masking the steely clink of chained links shifting... not from behind Raziel, where the mortal still twisted in its own manacles... but rather ahead. Something scrabbled in the shadows atop the ruined wardrobe. And then, like a great hunting spider, it leaped at Raziel, fingers hooked like daggers, fangs flashing.

Raziel ducked reflexively, his own hands coming up to catch and throw his attacker to one side--only to freeze as his opponent jerked short in mid-leap, caught at the throat and the wrists by chains snapped taut. Falling to the floor, Zephon snarled and snapped at his eldest brother like a beast, maddened with frustration and hunger, black-nailed fingers clawing impotently at the floor.

 _Zephon._ Raziel fought back a wave of both guilt and relief as he stepped forward. Relief that Rahab and the others remained free, guilt and worry following soon after at the evidence of his inability to keep his youngest brother safe. _Zephon._ “Zephon!” he snapped again, this time aloud when the fledgling responded only with a snarl to the Whisper. “It is Raziel. Be calm, and I will have you free.” He ducked another flailing swipe as he stepped within the fledgling’s range, and pounced, grabbing the young vampire by the back of the neck and pinning him to the floor. “Calm, Zephon. Or do I need to carve my orders in your flesh?” He could not afford to have Zephon be anything but obedient, not if they stood any chance of escaping this place!

“Ssst!” Zephon thrashed under Raziel’s heavy hand. Not only was his elder far stronger -- Raziel had already begun developing the ability to warp his personal gravity -- but the manacles that chained Zephon’s wrists close to his neck permitted him no good leverage on the glossy floorstones. Trying to kick at his tormentor earned Zephon little more than a solid knee planted hard on the back of his thigh. Eyes blazing his fury, Zephon went completely and utterly still, with all the sudden decisiveness of a fledgling switching tactics. The rain-heavy breeze swirled scraps of silk and fine linen around them both.

It was impossible to miss the signs of Zephon’s temper, but Raziel ignored them in favor of checking over his brother’s body instead, looking for signs of wounds or other abuse. The fledgling’s broken neck had obviously healed, though when he placed his hand against the younger vampire’s spine, he could feel the slight lingering warmth that indicated a certain amount of healing was still required. There were no other broken limbs or bones, thankfully--a few minor surface wounds, along with new scrapes from his attempted attack on Raziel, but nothing that wouldn’t heal swiftly given time and blood.

Carefully, wary of another attack, Raziel eased his weight off of his brother, sitting back on his heels. He had seen the key on the table when he had entered, and knowing Vorador, guessed it was for Zephon’s shackles. Taunting a fledgling by placing the key to one’s chains just out of reach seemed like something the elder vampire would do. He made no attempt to reach for it just yet, however. If Zephon was not minded to be reasonable, then he would not be freed.

“Zephon--what do you remember? Do you know if the elder has any of the others? Has he said anything to you?” he asked, keeping a heavy hand on the back of the younger vampire’s neck.

Zephon gnashed his teeth, eyeing the curve of his brother’s hip and line of his thigh, just outside of lunging distance. He could smell the elder fledgling’s potence, hot iron rich and strong, infused with the crispness of high mountain air and the weight of the moments just before daybreak, scents whispering of a kind of power that was uniquely and wholly Raziel. A mouthful of that blood, torn from dripping muscle, would taste like ambrosia, would feed and fulfill, more even than the mortal chained within his very sight, the mortal whose breath he could feel, whose heartbeat he could sense....

“Ssst... Yes!” Zephon hissed, then “no,” more softly, hoping that Raziel might lean closer to hear, might move within the range of a snapping bite. “Speaking yes, others -- no, nrrrgh. Did not say. Didn’t even... know you were here. How... how did.....” Zephon abandoned his ploy to tempt Raziel closer -- all thought of strategy washed away in a tide of red need. “Arrgh! Release me!”

Recognizing a fledgling on the verge of the bloodrage, Raziel sighed. “*Calm*, Zephon. Here--you may drink--” he proffered a wrist, his other hand tightening in warning about the younger vampire’s neck, “--but mind your manners, or I shall leave you here to starve.” It was not entirely an empty threat--scouting out the remainder of this lavish prison would no doubt be easier without a capricious fledgling dogging his steps--but there was no way Raziel was minded to leave his brother here for long. Not that Zephon needed to know that ….

The moment his neck was released, Zephon lunged, claws wrapping around Raziel’s wrist and dragging the limb to his mouth. The bite was not neat by any means, but at least it was not so damaging as it might have been. Kain had beat that caution into Zephon early, when the neonate’s violent bite had left their Sire without use of his left hand for hours, the tendons bitten through. Sealing his mouth over the wound, Zephon sucked hard, as if to urge the blood to seep more quickly from the punctures. Within a few years, he too would probably develop the ability to call blood to the skin’s surface, to use a mortal’s own autonomic reflexes to hasten death -- but for now, his only recourse was to encourage the flow with lips and lashing tongue.

Such measures were not really necessary -- Raziel’s veins were full, and the vitae within... was stronger than Zephon had ever tasted from his eldest brother, somehow smoky with stolen power, alive with energy. Tasting Raziel was an honor that Zephon was rarely allowed and had never won by force -- though he had tried, especially in the beginning. Even still, this richness... was something unique, something Zephon didn’t have the experience to comprehend. He knew only that this blood filled his belly with fire, lit a furnace that drove the aching cold from his limbs, breathed stolen life into his body, each swallow a draught of pure ambrosia.

Raziel allowed Zephon to suckle greedily for several long minutes, keeping a careful eye both on their surroundings and on the younger vampire’s appearance. Once Zephon’s pale skin had acquired a new flush of warmth, he roughly pulled his wrist free from his younger brother’s grasp, tightening his grip on Zephon’s neck as the fledgling snarled and attempted to regain his prize. Zephon would drain him dry given a chance, and Raziel had partially-healed wounds of his own to consider. “Enough!” he snapped, giving his brother a shake, like a terrier with a rat. “Snarl at me again, and I may decide to reclaim the blood you have taken.” He watched his brother with a narrowed gaze. Zephon’s obedience was chancy at best; Raziel might be eldest, but he was not their Sire--he did not have Kain’s overwhelming puissance to cow a fledgling into submission. Physical force and promised reward were the only tools he had to hand, and giving a scheming Zephon too much of the latter often only encouraged further misbehavior.

Zephon’s lips curled as he fought to keep them from drawing back from his sharp, vulpine fangs. He swallowed hard, licking the last drops of vitae from the inside of his mouth. His slitted gaze flicked to the mortal, still chained outside, then back to Raziel, calculating. He felt clearer now, as if his head were no longer stuffed with red wool. Even still, he hungered.

With an effort of will, Zephon kept himself perfectly still as Raziel studied him. Demands never got Zephon very far with his elder brother, and he had come to avoid them. Should he tilt his throat in a gesture of submission, beg his sibling to bring the key to him? Perhaps, yet Raziel ofttimes grew offended by manipulations he deemed too direct, and dealing with him required more planning, more care. Should he offer his sibling some prize or information? Yet Zephon had nothing, knew nothing. The red-haired vampire growled low in his chest, a short sound, angry that he’d not possessed the wherewithal to acquire more leverage in the short time he’d been in the bestial elder’s presence. He’d not make such a mistake again.

Zephon quieted himself, struck by an idea. “I am calm,” he informed his brother slyly.

Raziel gave him a dubious look, but slowly relaxed his grip. Sitting back upon his heels, he allowed his brother to push himself up from the floor, watching closely for any sign of another attack. “Very well,” he said neutrally. “The elder--Vorador--mentioned that he had been to see you, and from the chains he spoke true. What did he say to you?”

The red-haired vampire gnashed his teeth. Maddening, this business of playing Raziel’s games, of prizes withheld and permissions to be won! How Zephon longed to be able to set the rules of engagement as his brother did, to wield the power, to withhold his indulgence! First calm, now answers -- would Zephon ever be free of this thrice damned collar about his neck? Because Raziel... Raziel held every advantage, as usual, and what was to keep the older vampire from leaving him here? Nothing, nothing, nothing -- Zephon’s thoughts ran from corner to corner, like a trapped thing. Except. Zephon growled, his nails flexing against the glossy floorstones. “Bring me the key!” he hissed, then abruptly backpedalled, crouching lower as if in expectation of a blow, tilting his chin to flash his collared throat. “Let me free, Brother... and I will tell you everything the creature said to me.”

Raziel, who had been intending to free his brother just as soon as he was sure Zephon was not about to either attack or flee in a fit of fledgling temper, snarled at his brother, fangs bared. He had abased himself before the elder, suffered pain and humiliation all in order to bargain for his brother’s safety--how dare Zephon sit there and attempt to bargain with him, as if Raziel were nothing more than some haggling merchant! “You will tell me *now*, Zephon, or I shall drain you dry and leave you thus for Kain to find!” he growled, fingers curling into claws. He might be forced to suffer Vorador’s trickster tongue, but he was not about to do the same for any other! He rose to his feet, looming over the fledgling’s crouched form; a painful stab of his imprisoned flesh only fuelling his ire. Perhaps he should leave, and take the captive human as his own prey as well, just to teach his brother the consequences of disobedience ….

Zephon hissed in dismay, tugging ineffectually at the chain that bound him to the wall. Raziel could do much worse than simply force him into the red space of torpor, Zephon knew full well, though that was bad enough. Always, always Zephon got it wrong, misplayed his cards, gained no advantage -- dealing with Raziel was infuriating, maddening! How could he gain what he wanted, when Raziel was always strong enough to take what he pleased? “It... he said little,” the fledgling said, swallowing hard. “Something of knights, pieces on a board. Then he did... something, made it feel like our Sire, here.” Zephon scrubbed ineffectually at his scalp. “And then that he would return, and... I would have chance to demonstrate further obedience. Until then, I should learn... should learn patience.”

“He was right in that, at least,” Raziel grumbled, more to himself than to any other. He gave his brother another narrow-eyed glare, assessing whether the fledgling vampire told the truth. Near as he could tell, Zephon had--which meant Raziel had little reason to deny him his freedom. “I will unlock your chains now, Zephon--but if you do not obey me, I shall put you back in them just as swiftly, do you understand me?” He moved to the table, picking up the ornate silver key--then crouched back down at his brother’s side.

The locks were surprisingly small, and finely crafted into the cuffs and collar that Zephon bore. Still, their workings were not particularly complex, and the key served to unlock all three fastenings in turn. The chains fell with a jangling clatter, and Raziel sat back, ready to snatch his brother back at the first sign of any untoward movement.

“Yes.” Zephon trembled with eagerness, but otherwise held himself quite still as Raziel worked at the locks. The triparte chain fell away, and with a savage growl Zephon kicked it from him, the chain slithering and jangling over the flagstones and fetching up with a clatter against a finely plastered wall. Zephon drew a deep and shuddering breath, rubbing at his throat, then his wrists. His neck hurt. He peered at Raziel suspiciously. “Are we to flee? Has the Master come?” The mortal’s chains clinked a little from across the hallway, drawing Zephon’s sharp golden gaze. With a quiet whine of want, Zephon started to stand.

“Not yet. We will flee, if given the chance--but this elder is strong, and I do not expect it to be easy.” It was also entirely possible that the elder was scrying their meeting, listening to their words at this very moment. Still, Raziel had said nothing that Vorador did not likely already know. Raziel allowed Zephon to gain his feet, then checked the young vampire’s forward movement with a hand on his shoulder, feeling the fine trembling of eager bloodlust in his brother’s frame.

“The human is yours, Zephon.” Raziel, after all, had drunk his fill and more. Given the richness of Vorador’s blood, it would take a great deal of time--or more injury--before he would need to feed again. “But once you have sated your hunger, you will need to be swift, silent, and obedient, if we are to find a way out of this prison.” Pale fingers tightened for an instant in silent warning--then Raziel let Zephon go, knowing he would command little of the fledgling’s attention when prey was so close to hand.

Zephon hissed softly in acknowledgment. Raziel’s directives did not nettle him as they did Turel -- not when they ordered Zephon to do what he would have done anyway. Better, he thought, to let his elder think he commanded perfect obedience; Zephon might be beaten less, that way. The moment Raziel released him, Zephon lunged across the room, scattering the scraps of silk the fledgling had shredded in his frustrated anger.

To the mortal in the hallway, the darkness of the room seemed to swirl, black on black. The muted flicker of distant lightning picked out only flashes, glimpses, half-seen shadows that vanished as swiftly as they appeared. The peasant held himself quite still, straining for any sound -- for the muted the voices had fallen silent -- for any hint of the dangers that lurked within. There’d been another in the hallway, he was sure of it -- though whether the newcomer was flesh or shade, he could not say. And now, now...

He sensed it first, a stirring, a pressure in the air, and gasped aloud -- “Oh, Gods!” and then a hand like stone closed around his throat, knife-edged nails clutching cruelly, long limbs twining his. Bright white points of fiery pain blossomed, and the human bucked, shrieking, trying to throw off the thing that had him. The attacker hissed in annoyance, bit again, and this time the human could feel his pulse through the wounds, the terrifying sensation of bleeding freely from a punctured artery. “Oh gods, gods -- *please* --” the babble cut off as his attacker’s hand tightened around his throat.

Even with captive prey, Zephon’s kill was messier than Raziel would have preferred. But his brother was still a fledgling, and could hardly be blamed for his frenzied lack of skill. With a sigh, Raziel left the younger vampire to his meal, ignoring the peasant’s impotent struggles in favor of more thoroughly investigating the confines of Zephon’s prison. The room’s furnishings had been quite thoroughly destroyed, and he could see the marks of Zephon’s temper in the claw marks that adorned carved wood and shredded fabrics. There was another door to the room, leading off to an antechamber; this room had obviously been out of his brother’s reach, since its furnishings were still intact. It appeared to be a solar, or some other manner of waiting-chamber, with tall windows that spanned nearly the length of one wall, draped in heavy muffling curtains. Twitching a drapery aside, Raziel contemplated those windows. They seemed an odd choice of decoration for creatures that shunned sunlight. Perhaps the elder used them to contemplate the night sky?

He tapped the leaded glass thoughtfully. Breaking out the window would take only a matter of moments; but it was the hazards of the swamp beyond them that gave him pause. Frowning, he turned away--they would need supplies, and an idea of which direction in which to travel, before Raziel was willing to risk such a chancy escape route.

The rest of the room yielded nothing else of interest, and there were no other exits. Tilting his head, Raziel noted that the muffled cries of Zephon’s meal could no longer be heard, and judging it better to keep an eye on his capricious brother, he headed back into the other room. The younger vampire was still suckling fiercely at the now-dead human’s throat, and a low growl escaped him as he caught Raziel’s movement out of the corner of his eye.

Raziel snorted. “I have no need for your offal, Zephon. Finish your meal so that we may leave this place. Unless you have developed a fondness for it?”

Zephon hissed a short note of denial -- he had no desire at all to return to the room in which he’d been so cruelly confined! But Raziel had power enough to force him there, to lock Zephon back into those chains, didn’t he? Certainly yes, certainly. Finally full, even if not sated, Zephon withdrew his fangs from the dead human’s throat, and wiped his mouth on the corpse’s rough-woven sleeve. “No.... Let us not stay here,” Zephon said, abandoning the body to hang listless from its wrists. The mortal’s warmth joined the power he’d stolen from Raziel’s veins, gathering in a warm radiation in the pit of his belly, kindling a strength that uncoiled through his undead flesh and cleared his thoughts.

Padding silently, Zephon went to join his eldest brother, obliquely reassured by Raziel’s presence. As much as he might normally resent his brother’s strength, now it might be the only thing standing between Zephon and another encounter with that green-skinned creature. Though in a contest between them... Zephon considered that possibility for a moment. Perhaps it would be best to ensure that such a confrontation never came to pass. Zephon lifted his head, sniffing the air, trying to determine from where the ancient’s scent was strongest. Blood, dust, the human, old fabrics... and the creature’s distinctive smoke-iron tang, strongest... around Raziel. Zephon’s eyes narrowed in sudden suspicion. “You had dealings with it?” the fledgling asked.

“Say rather it had dealings with *me*, and you would be more accurate,” Raziel said dryly. The throbbing and heavy ache of his confined flesh was a constant reminder of that, as were the sudden stabs of pressure and pain whenever he made an incautious movement. “Come. We only have until daybreak to explore, and I mean to see what manner of place has become our prison.” In this, Zephon’s insatiable need to ferret out every nook, cranny and bolthole of a place would be quite advantageous for a change, just as long as he could keep a leash upon his capricious brother.

He headed out into the darkened hallway, leaving the corpse of Zephon’s meal behind for the elder to deal with. Given the mastery of magic that Vorador had thus far displayed, however, he had little doubt that it would be taken care of without any of the tiresome dumping of bodies that Kain’s progeny were oft forced to do.

Zephon followed closely, reluctant to get too far away, though he paused a moment to survey the shadowed corridor. It was cool here, the air freshened by occasional breezes from the open archways and the multitude of rooms, but the sharp chill of oncoming winter did not seem to touch this valley. A long strip of rug down the hall was soft and padded under Zephon’s sandals, and Raziel’s bare feet were silent upon it. Zephon fingered a heavy wall hanging -- wool and gold thread, the resultant textile thick as the breadth of a finger -- and then trotted to catch up with his brother. “It dealt with you... for new clothing?” Zephon said, incensed. “Is that why we are here? Why only until daybreak?”

The fledgling came to an abrupt halt were the hallway ended, at a T-intersection of corridors, passageways stretching to the right and left. The area was widened, like a room itself, and covered by an enormous rug that stretched from wall to wall. Several plush pieces of furniture -- apparently stuffed with wool rather than straw, to judge by the softness, -- crouched on legs carved like lions or vines. One rose, so long dry it seemed likely to fall to powder at a breath, lay across the pages of a leather-bound book, open to dense columns of alien text. The sight which brought Zephon up short, though, was the window -- hundreds of pieces of colored glass, each linked to others with a thin strip of lead, the panel was taller than a man. It fractured the glow of distant lightning into a million dim and subtle shades, a slow-stirring flicker of color and shadow.

“The elder has commanded our presence at daybreak,” Raziel said in answer, even as he took in the sight. What he had at first thought only an elaborate swirl of colored glass seemed to change the longer he looked at it, until he thought he could see wings against a roiling clouded sky, and clawed hands reaching up from below …

He looked away, an unfathomable prickle of unease shuddering over his skin. _Vorador is not to be trifled with, Zephon. For now, we will be obedient. But we will also be watchful, and prepare for the chance when we might seize our escape. Or, failing that, to return to Kain’s side when our Sire comes for us._ He only hoped that the elder could not eavesdrop upon their Whispered conversation, and he moved to a nearby wall, trailing pale fingers along the fitted stone. Perhaps the elder had a bolthole, or some secret ways to escape hunters that they could use …?

Raziel did not know what Zephon’s reaction would be, once the fledge witnessed to Raziel’s submission to their captor. It would not be the first time he had seen Raziel submit to an elder vampire--but always before that elder had been Kain. Now … sly as Zephon was, no doubt he would try to find a way to capitalize upon that knowledge. Turel and Dumah would have crowed their delight over Raziel’s humiliation, and Zephon might well do the same--or he might simply find in it an excuse for disobedience. Raziel would have to be wary of any trickery, regardless.

“Es--” _Escape?_ Zephon said, catching on the word. Pestering Raziel with questions did not often result in answers; his eldest brother was far more clever with words than a fledgling newly-risen, and Zephon certainly could not compel a more useful reply. Finding new routes of egress from a place was always an interesting activity, anyway. So, for the moment, perhaps he could wait, and watch for a chance to discover the things his brother tried to hide.

Padding up beside Raziel, Zephon watched him run fingertips over the stonework for a few moments, trying to see whatever had caught his elder’s attention. Then he shrugged. _The humans must have a way out,_ he returned, his Whisper nearly as clear as Turel’s, despite the difference in age between them. Zephon pointed to the left-hand hallway. _Or the metal servants._ The rugs to which he gestured appeared worn in the slowly-shifting light, the nap laid flat under the tread of many feet.

Surprised and pleased at Zephon’s perspicacity, Raziel nodded. _Your point is well-taken. Shall we follow this trail, then, and see where it leads?_ In truth, he would not have thought to look for such patterns of wear; he would need to remember this for the future. He followed the path into the leftwards hallway, keeping a careful watch out for lurking human servants--or the shadowy bulk of Vorador himself.

Zephon trotted after his brother. The hallway soon emptied onto a solarium of sorts, now lit by the flicker of lightning and a solitary lamp, left to glow alone on a ledge. The fledglings stood on an upper balcony, crafted all in marble. Directly ahead, a great winged man carved from lapis, spear upraised, poised on the edge of a void. It aimed its weapon at another figure, this creature crouched and thin-limbed, its own stunted wings mantled. From its open, long-fanged mouth emerged a steady stream of water, splashing down into the hollow center of the room. When Zephon went to the railing, he found that the room spanned three full floors of the mansion. There was another balcony below, and at the lowest level lay a tile-edged pool of rippling water. To the right, a marble staircase -- wide enough for four men to walk abreast -- wound its way down to the lower levels.

Raziel hissed under his breath, aggravated. “What is it with this creature and *water*?” he grumbled. To invite watery death into the center of one’s own house--why not simply have fiery hellish pits and be done with it?

Giving the splashing fall of water a cautious berth--and keeping an eye on Zephon, lest the fledgling venture too close to the dangerous stuff--Raziel began methodically investigating each room and entranceway upon the topmost level. Most led to one room after another, some furnished, many not. A few led to further mazelike corridors, ending in yet *more* abandoned spaces, many adorned with more of the everpresent winged statuary. After the umpteenth winding turn in which Raziel somehow found himself back where he had started, he favored the latest statue with an aggravated snarl. “Let us go down upon the ground level,” he said to Zephon. “If there are servant quarters, no doubt they are there.” Suiting action to words, he headed down that broad marble staircase.

It did not take longer before they found it--not the servant quarters, but a broad, marble-floored ballroom. Shrouded by night, the space seemed cavernous, even given the expanse of the rest of the manse. And beyond it--Raziel tensed as his eyes fell upon a standing rack of weaponry. He headed directly for it, resisting the urge to break into a run.

The rack, like everything else in this place, was ornately carved, a work of art in itself. But Raziel only had eyes for the blades that it held; whatever else his failings, he was foremost a warrior, and each razor-edged weapon upon that rack was nothing short of a masterpiece.

Instinct drove him to snatch, to claim as much of this precious treasure as he possibly could--reason held him back. He could hardly carry an armory upon his back, and the sight of these blades brought to mind the vivid memory of how his own had fared against the elder vampire. Even such fine steel might do little better against the creature’s strength. Still, it was not in his nature to walk unarmed … and carefully, reverently, he lifted a longsword from its resting place, feeling its exquisite balance, the vibrating thrum of living steel against his palm.

Zephon skirted the edge of the huge... ballroom, perhaps?... as Raziel fondled the blades he’d found. A huge chandelier hung in the center of the room, far out of reach even if Zephon jumped really hard, like he sometimes could. The floor was scuffed oddly, the tiles chipped in places, as if this room saw harder use than other places in the mansion. The walls were draped in red curtains, heavy velvet -- just like all the other curtains in this mad place -- and Zephon twitched them back out of habit as he slunk by. Huge windows, just like everywhere else, an alcove with some kind of splintered wooden targets, more windows, and.... Zephon paused, calculating.

Could he win some favor with this information? What would Raziel give for this? Could Zephon hide his find away, somehow? Probably not. And as poorly-concealed as this treasure was, Zephon thought it likely that Raziel would discover it, and then Zephon would be beaten for his reticence. The fledgling sighed. “Raziel,” he said, finding the long wooden dowel that guided half of the curtain, and began to push the covering open on its railing.

The solitary rack that Raziel had discovered against the far wall held only a fraction of the room’s weapons. As the red velvet was drawn back, rank upon rank of gleaming steal came into view, weapons hung from the ground to the ceiling for a span of wall as long as the armspan of ten men. Swords in a hundred styles in metals that glowed, daggers, rapiers, and scimitars, halberds and pikes, exotic blades in strange angular shapes, axes from tiny handblades to grand battleaxes taller than a man. Some were enameled with arcane runes. In others, silver had been pounded thin and folded into the steel so that the flat of the blade looked like wavering layers of sediment -- deadly poison to were-creatures. Maces, flails, and sledges were grouped in ranks apart from the bladed weapons, followed by smaller throwing weapons. Some spots on each rack were empty, and the weapons in others were worn or battered -- they’d clearly seen long and violent use. But the vast majority were perfect, gleaming as if they’d come straight from the forge.

Shields and other armor -- bits and pieces from a multitude of suits and styles -- came next, along with the cotton or wool jerkins to be worn underneath. All told, the collection might have outfit two hundred warriors, or more if none of them wished to be fully armored.

Raziel glanced over--and his eyes widened, the sword drooping (but not forgotten, never forgotten) in one hand as he took in the veritable armory that Zephon had discovered. Only his younger brother’s watchful gaze kept him from scurrying over like a miser at the sight of a mountain of gold. Instead he approached with a steady, measured pace, eyes skipping from one extraordinary blade to the next. There seemed to be no end to the variety--save for the almost complete lack of crossbows or other missile weapons.

“....extraordinary,” Raziel breathed, his free hand reaching out to touch a flamberge that positively glowed, even in the dim light. Its resemblance to their Sire’s favored blade was extraordinary, even if it did not possess the Reaver’s eldritch puissance. “He must have spent centuries amassing such a collection …” And yet he had seen no signs of any soldiery, human or otherwise. Had the elder gathered together such an armory only to let it molder untouched? When almost every blade within was undoubtedly the work of some long-forgotten human master smith?

“Somehow, I do not think arming ourselves will be problematic,” he said dryly, trying to recover some semblance of composure. _Though we will need to be circumspect, until it is time for us to make our move …_ he Whispered in warning. Idle pilferage might well place this entire treasure trove beyond their grasp, should the elder take offense.

Zephon shrugged, not particularly interested in the masses of weapons -- he used them poorly, in comparison with his elders, and little liked the reminder of his inadequacy. A slim stilletto, however, caught his attention. It was long for its class, very thin, made of a very dark steel, and the thin strip of its edge... wasn’t metal. Zephon could see through it, as if it were crystal, or glass. The little blade had a sinister look about it. Zephon palmed it while his brother stood fascinated, then wandered further down the line of weaponry. Some of these clubs probably weighted as much as Zephon did, himself....

A flicker of movement, and Zephon stepped back, between two massive mauls, watching in alert silence as one of the metal golems stepped from the far hallway. The thing was taller than he. Vaguely man-shaped, it walked with an awkward rolling gait on legs with too few joints. Its head was a knob of steel, eyeless, roughly formed like most of the rest of the thing. Other parts of it had been lovingly sculpted -- the bulge of a bicep, the cords of one calf, its fully articulated hands. The stubs of its feet clacked as it moved off the rug and onto the tile floor. Ignoring the fledglings, it trundled on its way across the ballroom, looking neither left nor right. Zephon watched it warily -- he’d seen such things move past the open archway of his prison, but he did not know if they would prove dangerous now.

Raziel, distracted by the weapons, did not register the golem’s presence until the thing stepped from the muffling carpet into the ballroom. The rhythmic _*tok tok*_ of the creature’s steps was as loud as a whipcrack to a vampire’s ears, and he spun, sword coming up unthinkingly in a defensive stance as he registered the intrusion.

“... what in Kain’s name …?” Eyes narrowed, Raziel moved forward, shifting to place himself between the thing and Zephon. The statue-golem continued its progress, not seeming to register the movement--and after a few moments, Raziel relaxed, sword dropping by slow and wary degrees. “Magical servitors, then,” he mused, mostly to himself, watching as the thing moved past them to a small cubby, and retrieved what appeared to be a cleaning cloth, a dustpan, and a somewhat battered broom. Then it turned, heading for the far wall of the ballroom. Setting its other implements aside, it began to sweep the floor, moving in eerie silence, its footsteps and the sounds of the broom against the marble the only sounds it made.

Approaching the thing cautiously, Raziel warily moved within arm’s reach--and when the golem still did not react, crouched and reached out, experimentally tapping the golem upon one sculpted arm. The golem turned, and Raziel hastily backed away--but the magical construct merely continued sweeping.

Zephon watched it for a while, then padded from his impromptu place of hiding. He stood just back of Raziel, watching the golem for a time, and then cautiously moved around and set his sandaled foot in the creature’s path, so that the thing’s broom hit it. The golem paused momentarily, made a ninety-degree turn away from the fledglings, and then began sweeping in that direction. A little disappointed that the golem could not be easily baited, Zephon looked to the corridor from where it had come. “Maybe it has other things we could use,” he offered, liking the idea of looting the creature’s valuables while it was otherwise occupied.

Personally, Raziel was rather doubtful of that. What sort of personal possessions would a animated statue have, anyway? But it seemed as good an avenue to pursue as any--and perhaps the creature’s back trail would show them a way out.

“Very well.” With some reluctance, he replaced the longsword--it would be impossible to conceal its disappearance, and Raziel did not wish to provoke Vorador’s ire for no good purpose. The earlier consequences of the elder vampire’s anger were still seared vividly upon his memory, and he had no wish to revisit that kind of pain anytime soon.

With a last assessing look at the still-sweeping golem, he headed for the entrance, turning down the dark corridor. There were fewer windows here, darkness and silence muffling their movements as they explored. What would have been oppressive to a nightblind human, however, was merely welcome concealment for a vampire, and they moved with inhuman grace, golden eyes picking out shapes and color out of the darkness with little trouble.

Once, in a small room, they came across another golem engaged in adding oil to the tiny sconces which lit a few of the chambers. This one’s face was crafted with great care and detail. All the rest of the creature, though, was blank and lumpish, like metal still half-liquid.

Two floors down, in a region of the manse in very poor repair, the fine tiles of the floor were broken and the stone beneath dug away to form a pit that seemed to descend to hell itself -- no light issued up from the void. Creaking and clattering a little, a system of strange machinery clustered on the edge of the pit. Unattended wheels drew a massive metal cable up, upon which were attached a series of huge metal boxes containing -- to judge from the inky black dust which gathered on everything -- coal.

With little desire to linger, the vampires ascended the first set of steps they came across, and here, the scent of living mortals was layered thick. There was no scent of fear, oddly, just sweat and skin. Turning a corner, the fledglings found themselves without warning at a juncture of the stone manse and some manner of wooden... structure. It had surely once been a stable or barn of sorts, from the size. Now, ravens roosted in the rafters, pecking at one another in pique as the roof dripped occasionally on them. But the vampires had little eye for the wildlife -- for this barn was full of prey.

Most of the bunkbeds along one wall were occupied, the sleeping mortals appearing to care nothing for the drops which fell upon them. Others went about tasks of various kind, bearing lamps. Some carried bolts of fabric, others sat intently mending cloth. A few of them used small knives to strip the flesh from the carcass of a forest buck. Paying the vampires as much heed as had the metal golems, a woman moved past them, carrying two buckets of water in a yoke across her shoulders. Zephon flinched away, hissing, but the mortal seemed deaf and dumb both.

The front doors of the barn were ajar; the fledglings could see a strip of churned mud, the dense tangle of plantlife, and open skies.

“It is as if they do not see us at all …” murmured Raziel, stepping back against the wall as another pair of humans trudged by, this time men carrying trenchers of well-salted meat for drying. He stepped forward, bending downwards to peer into a middle-aged woman’s face; she continued with her mending, calloused fingers plying needle and thread and utterly oblivious to his predatory scrutiny.

“Magics upon magics …” How did Vorador manage to sustain so many spells at once? Were they somehow bound into the fabric of this place? Straightening, he clamped a restraining hand on Zephon’s shoulder as the younger vampire took an eager step forward, eyes bright and fangs bared, intent upon the easy prey before them both. “No, Zephon. You have fed well already.” And he was little inclined to deal with the inevitable mess that would ensue if he allowed the fledgling to indulge his gluttonous ways. Ignoring Zephon’s angry hissing, he steered the younger vampire towards that open door, cuffing him upon the head when the fledgling made an attempt to dart back around him. _Remember our objective--we are looking for escape, not to feast like leeches upon the elder’s larder!_ he Whispered, knowing even as he did so that his words were likely to have little effect.

Outside, the rain had subsided--but the dripping wet that remained gave him pause. Gritting his teeth, Raziel suppressed his instinctive urge to back away; his eyes fell upon a mismatched cluster of clogs and rough-cobbled boots jumbled together, and he picked a pair that seemed the most whole, shoving bare feet into their ill-smelling confines and shoving another pair at Zephon.

“But -- just one!” Zephon protested, trying to squirm back inside, only to be caught hard by the arm and dragged back. “It’s wet out there. Arrgh!” The fledgling howled as a raven perched above shook itself, showering several droplets of rainwater down onto him. The water stung. And Raziel wanted to escape with nothing but leaky human boots? Zephon would be burned, burned all up by the rain until he died, and then the green elder-creature would find him and beat him. It would be horrible. “No!” clawing and thrashing, Zephon did his best to climb straight up and over Raziel’s stronger frame.

“Cease your snivelling!” Raziel snarled, manhandling Zephon back in front of him with the ease of long practice. Zephon might be fearful, but he was not truly in the panicked frenzy that his struggles seemed to indicate, and Raziel was not minded to coddle him. A wayward sharp-nailed hand gouged him across the cheekbone as the younger vampire flailed; snarling, he caught first one wrist, then the other, tightening his grip painfully until the bones ground together. “It is no longer raining, fool,” he snapped. “You are of the blood of Kain, Zephon--you can withstand a little damp!” He bared fangs, leaning close. “Or do I need to drain you dry and carry you like a useless sack of meal?”

The appeal to Zephon’s pride fell of deaf ears, but the bared fangs and narrowed eyes drew the fledgling up short. He knew that expression, knew the kind of ‘correction’ Raziel could apply. Knew, too, that Raziel would carry out his threats, oftimes with relish. Quickly, Zephon cast his eyes down, and with more hesitation than was strictly proper, bent his head to flash the side of his throat in submission. “No, Raziel,” he said morosely, hoping to keep his wrists intact. “I will wear the boots.” He jerked as Raziel squeezed still harder. “And go with you! And, ack, make no further protest! Please!”

With a last warning snarl, Raziel released him, but watched narrowly until a cowed Zephon had indeed pulled on the ill-fitting footwear. Then he pushed the younger vampire out of the doorway, uncaring as the fledgling flinched and ducked away from the droplets of water that fell from the eaves. Raziel himself ended up scorched by a stray droplet or two, which did little to sweeten his temper; but he had set them upon this course, and now pure stubbornness required that he see it through.

Their boots squelched through the churned mud as they cautiously made their way outside. It was still dark; but the sky was just beginning to lighten from inky black to the first hints of purple predawn light. The courtyard in which they stood was ill-kempt, with wet swamp grasses tangling upon the edges of the trampled earth and in the corners of the walls, and beyond them, the dark bowed shapes of the great swamp trees rose dark against the cloud-scudded sky. Raziel took in a deep breath, sorting out the scents the wind brought--the nearby human-scent, of course, leather and urine and muddy stone--but also the scent of the elder, the pungent reek of rotting greenery and stagnant water, and even further, the barest hints of drake and wolf, and other, lesser swamp denizens. “Come, Zephon,” he ordered, and left the ramshackle shelter of the human quarters behind, following the fitted stone wall to see where it led.

In stark contrast to the weathered wood of the human shelter, the stone exterior of Vorador’s great manse was immaculate, untouched by the humidity and the rain. Gargoyles, frozen mid-pace snarled at the fledglings from the rooftops -- unhappy at being trapped outside, in full view of any creature which chanced to wander by, Zephon snarled uselessly back. Most of the windows were set well above Zephon’s ability to to peer inside, but a few were lower, and he gazed longingly at the dry rooms within, until Raziel called him onward. The ground squelched under his feet, and from time to time, a raven called harshly from above.

Twenty minutes of slow progress and several corners later, the fledglings found what must surely be the manse’s front entrance. The huge double doors themselves -- flanked by more enormous, winged stone men -- were set back a little, and opened onto a cobblestone... porch, or field, hundreds of feet from one end to the other. The vast expanse of stone tile was wet with recent rain, but otherwise smooth and clean, as finely made as most of the rest of the mansion. It was built some few feet above the rest of the spongy soil, and steps led down into the swamp.

Something to the left, towards the great body of the swamp, made a hollow sucking sound. Before the fledgling’s eyes, a wrought-iron... post, of sorts, lifted itself up from the mud. Peat and debris fell away from the thing, slowly revealing a skull, the bone bleached. In the empty cranium, green fire sputtered, then blossomed.

Further away in the depths of the swamp, an identical lamp-post began to rise from the muck.

Watching as a line of green-glowing lamps lit the dark, Raziel exchanged looks with Zephon. “An invitation … or a trap?” he wondered out loud. Either way, there was only one way to find out.

Keeping a way eye on the darkness beyond the eldritch lamplight, Raziel ventured forward, inspecting the first lamp before following the path they indicated. The trail they followed was surprisingly dry; higher than the surrounding ground, it seemed to be an artificial embankment of sorts, with boulders piled along the sides. Raziel could hear the slop of the waiting water beyond, along with a few distant cawing cries of the ever-present ravens. When they had progressed far enough down the path that the manse had disappeared behind the concealing trees, he paused, suddenly uncertain. If they went too far, and the lamps disappeared--they would be well and truly at the mercy of the swamp, without either supplies or direction. And it would not be hard for the elder to determine which path they had taken, should he decide to hunt them down ….

“We should return,” Raziel murmured, glancing up at the lightening sky.

Zephon had followed his brother, making little sounds of dismay. The trees were wet, their bark so spongy that even touching them for balance singed his hand. And this... trail thing, indicated by the occasional lamps, was hardly an easy one. The embankment had subsided or decayed in places, leaving puddles and spots so narrow that water waited just a single step to either side. It was better than leaping from hummock to soggy hummock, Zephon supposed, but not by much. As the fledglings moved beyond sight of the manse, the trees became larger, massive and vine-draped. Lizards and frogs and strange birds fled the young vampires; great fleshy swamp blossoms perfumed the air or snapped shut on hapless morning insects. The tracks of larger creatures abounded in the muddy places.

Zephon greeted his brother’s pronouncement with relief, trotting eagerly back over the ground they’d covered. But still -- “Weren’t we going to escape?” he pestered, falling silent as they reached the huge raised porch once more. He followed at Raziel’s heels as his brother climbed the stairs and headed for the doors of the great front entrance. They were taller than three men, and each was much wider than Zephon could reach. Even still, the massive portal swung open easily, perfectly balanced, the wood unwarped by the damp.

 _We will--but not yet,_ Raziel Whispered, mindful of listening ears. _This endeavor was merely to discover what our options were, and where we might find supplies when we make our attempt._ He gave Zephon a level look. _It is always a good thing to know where one needs to run in order to escape, is it not?_ It was a basic fledgling lesson, but one he did not think Zephon would be slow in learning, in all honesty.

Pushing open the door, Raziel was about to enter--then, looking down at his muddied boots, reconsidered. He pulled them off one by one, stepping carefully past the lintel as he did so that no betraying footprints marred the shining marble, then indicated to Zephon that he should do the same. _These will come in handy later--where do you think they would best be hidden?_ It was both test and distraction; it gave the fledgling vampire something of worth to do, and if Zephon was focused upon caching their purloined boots, he was less likely to be plotting ways to sneak his way around Raziel and into trouble.

Zephon brightened. _Near the mortals,_ he said unhesitating, as he slipped from his ragged boots and picked them up. _So that we may eat well before we go. There were oilcloths in their quarters, too. And long poles._ Thinking rapidly of the things they would need, Zephon headed for an echoing hallway to the right. Always fond of twisting and interconnected passages, Zephon had slowly come to realize that there was a pattern to this place, a repeated layout to the hallways and rooms. If he guessed rightly, then....

Thoroughly absorbed, Zephon led them back to familiar corridors with only a few false turns -- at one point, they found themselves on the upper balcony of a theatre meant to seat fifty in sprawling comfort, musical instruments laying abandoned across the stage. Soon enough, though, they came across the human quarters once more, and Zephon selected a dusty cubby for their treasures, under Raziel’s watchful gaze. Entirely pleased with himself, Zephon trailed after his brother once more, back to the strange ballroom with the chipped floor and all the weapons.

The metal golem was now gone from the room, and the floor was shining-clean, but a human had wandered in instead. He blankly placed a bucket and damp mop into the same closet where the golem had retrieved a broom. And then, inexplicably, the mortal went to a wall near the solitary rack of weaponry, where hung a set of open manacles. Zephon watched in confusion, and then awe, as the mortal turned around, reached up, and then closed one of the heavy metal cuffs around his own wrist. Then he locked his other wrist into a manacle. For several moments, nothing happened, then the human shook his head, staggering, drawn up short by the chains. “Wha -- what happened? Oh, where am I?” the human gasped, suddenly smelling of fear.

Fangs bared in a predatory grimace of delight, Zephon went to investigate the now-trapped mortal. He flinched, though, as a deep voice rumbled from behind. “I see you found the place, fledglings.”

It was the huge, heavy-muscled creature, the vampire-thing that had broken his neck so very easily. Zephon hadn’t even heard it arrive. Hissing quietly, the neonate skittered back, behind Raziel.

Distracted by the human’s odd behavior, Raziel flinched at the elder’s voice. He spun to face Vorador, keeping himself between the elder vampire who lounged in the doorway--if such a muscled creature could ever be said to lounge anywhere--and a cowering Zephon.

“We did,” he said warily, finding agreement to be the safest course of action. “You said earlier that you wished to … test us?”

“Hn.” The elder was dressed differently, though no less elaborately, than before. He wore less silk and more leather, brass fittings creaking as he moved. The suit was not quite armor, but neither was it quite a vestment. He wore some manner of gauntlets and boots, and these were scale-plated. Vorador had dispensed with the long coat, though he seemed not at all diminished by the lack. “So I did; though if you wish me to congratulate you on your fine ability to repeat my words, I think you mistaken.” Vorador pushed casually away from the stone wall, stalking into the room, heavy hoof-like toes spreading with each step. “I see you have examined the practice weapons,” he continued, looking over the open curtains. The scars and burns across his face and neck had healed a great deal over the past few hours, and were less prominent now. “Have you selected some?”

All that magnificent weaponry--and it was merely for *practice*? Raziel could feel the disbelief trying to break past his mask of wariness as he glanced at the racks of blades, then back at Vorador. Was the elder truly serious? “I … there were so many, but--there were a few I would choose above the others, were it needful.” His eyes flickered over to the longsword he had picked up upon first discovering the trove, but swiftly returned to Vorador’s face. “Are we to spar each other? Or … you, my lord?” Fighting with the metal sheathing about his genitals was not going to be pleasant, though thankfully not as torturous as it would have been hours before; his erection had subsided slowly--far too slowly!--over the intervening hours, the softened flesh resting easier within its imposed confines.

“Each other?” Vorador tilted his head a little, gaze like a weight as it fell across Zephon. The neonate crept back another few steps. “No. Not at present, in any case. I do enjoy watching, even more than your sire does -- but a little activity will do me good this day. Your sibling may wait, for now.” Vorador ran the tips of his talons over some of the weapons upon the great wall, lingering over a few. Then he selected a plain quarterstaff, short in comparison to the elder’s height. It was carved with no runes, glowed with no spells. “Choose your fang, pup -- unless you prefer the pugilistic arts?”


	10. Chapter 10

Raziel shook his head--he had already gone hand to hand with Vorador once, and come out much the worse for wear! Not that he had many illusions that a blade would help even the disparity in their strength, even such blades as these. Still, it was not in him to lie down without a fight. Eyeing the staff the elder vampire had chosen, he ruthlessly squashed the temptation to chose a staff of his own--false chivalry was a fool’s game, especially in circumstances such as this.

With a last wary glance at the elder, he moved over to the portion of the racks where the swords lay, and took up a longsword similar to the one he had chosen earlier. He would need the extra length of the blade to counter the reach of the elder’s staff, and while a greatsword was even longer, it would slow him too much in the attack. Hefting the blade with the careful respect it was due, he moved away, into an opposing position to where Vorador waited.

Vorador watched him closely, undistracted by the patter of sandals as Zephon darted aside. The sword which Raziel chose was not quite perfect for his build -- it was a little too wide, the hilt a fraction too broad for fledgling fingers. It was not a bad match, to be sure, and depending on the youngling’s fighting style it might be almost perfect. Might be. Almost.

Even still, the fledgling handled the blade properly, knuckles in careful alignment, thumb placed just so. He watched as the fledgling easily, naturally settled into a proper fighting stance. Perhaps the fledgling was too heavy on his heels, however. “You may begin,” Vorador said, taking a long, swift stride forward. “Keep your weight forward,” he rumbled, the tip of his staff lashing out to tap at the back of the fledgling’s bent knee.

Raziel snarled reflexively at the correction, the barest hint of fang showing even as he shifted his weight as the elder wanted--then he continued the movement, flashing forward in a straight-line lunge, his sword-tip rising to pierce through the air straight toward Vorador’s heart. The leathered armor, elaborate as it might be, would hardly be enough to stop the thrust. No doubt the elder had speed and strength enough to counter, just as Kain did, and if he did not--well, Raziel would certainly not complain if Fortuna granted him an impaling stroke.

Vorador didn’t seem to move at all. One instant the blade was on course, the next, guided aside by a casual parry, an easy rolling motion of the wood of the elder’s staff against the flat of the longsword. The movement was almost too fast to follow, deflecting the blade only *just* far enough to the side, leaving Raziel the slightest bit too far extended. Then the other end of the staff came around, low, forcing the fledgling to scramble to jump the sweeping blow. “Confident, are you not? Good.” Vorador rumbled, the tip of the quarterstaff whipping towards Raziel’s bicep.

Were a human his opponent, Raziel would simply have ignored the blow, trusting in his vampiric strength and stamina to carry him through the hit and into another attack. But an elder vampire’s strength behind that blow meant that it could very well break his arm, which was a hindrance he could not afford. Sliding one foot back, he pivoted, interposing his blade in the way of the strike, grunting as the force behind it forced him backwards. The razored edge of his sword bit deeply into the wood, however, and Raziel twisted the blade as he turned, splintering the wood in a deep gouge as the longsword slid free. He did not waste time on words, but pressed another attack, this time sweeping up in a low cut meant to bisect his opponent across that forward-leaning torso.

With suppleness belying his size, Vorador twisted aside, a sway that seemed effortless for all its speed. He parried away the next handful of rapid blows, losing another few chips of seasoned wood with each vicious strike. The young vampire once launched his blade in a clever pirouette, forcing Vorador to bat the length of steel away using his thick-scaled gauntlet. “Your grip is too tight,” Vorador pointed out, ghosting aside as Raziel hacked down, then catching the edge of the fledgling’s sword in the wood of his quarterstaff. A hard jerk nearly ripped the hilt of the blade from Raziel’s hands, though it also split the last handspan of the staff in twain. Vorador’s mouth tightened. “Keep the palm firm, only; control lies in the thumb and forefinger,” the elder said, the tip of the staff flashing out to rap at Raziel’s knuckles.

Raziel snarled under his breath at the stinging smack, jerking backwards too late to avoid the blow. But he shifted his grip as he was bid, and attacked again, putting all his speed to use in a flurry of feints and short, sharp jabs, designed to harry his opponent. He could not match the elder vampire strength to strength, thus his only option was to look for openings in Vorador’s defense--or to create them.

Another parry, and the staff lost its tip in a shower of splinters. His lips pulled back from his fangs in a feral hunting smile, and Raziel used that brief moment of hesitation, slipping under Vorador’s guard to catch the center of that staff between blade and crossguard, binding it--then giving a sharp *twist* with all his strength in the hopes that it would disarm the elder vampire entirely.

The grip of Vorador’s thick, powerful talons did not break.

But the staff did.

With a terrible crack, the heavy ironwood pole snapped in two, showering splinters, leaving Vorador with two ragged halves no longer than shortswords. “Clever, fledgling.” For the first time, the ancient gave ground, blocking several more flickering thrusts of Raziel’s blade with his scaled gauntlets. Metal rang on metal, sparks blossoming, and once scored a shallow slice across the elder’s leather-clad flank, drawing the barest trace of thick black blood. It took Vorador several moments, amid the flurry of blows, to flip the short sticks over, to wield them by their more jagged ends. “Your attack is quite good, for your age. Shall we weigh the other side of the coin?”

For Zephon, watching from the sidelines, the two fighters seemed to blur with speed. Their rapid movements became almost too much to follow. Steel sang as it cleaved air or wood or clanged off steel, punctuated by Raziel’s low growl as he threw himself into one rapid-fire attack after the next. Zephon had only watched Kain spar with his firstborn before -- a swift and flashing sworddance. Even with that limited experience, though, Zephon could see that there was something different here. The green-skinned vampire was every bit as fast as their Sire, and perhaps as agile for all his great size. But he had a calculating and lazy grace that Kain did not, as if Vorador could only be troubled to expend *just* enough effort to turn Raziel’s weapon aside, as if the elder meant to let Raziel wear himself down, minute by minute, playing the anaconda’s inevitable game. Vorador wielded his two weapons as fluidly as he had a single one.

Then, in a smooth shift, the ancient went on the offensive. Striking Raziel’s sword up and away with one stick, Vorador whipped the side of his baton at Raziel’s chest.

Raziel hissed in dismay, backpedalling frantically. With Vorador now wielding dual weapons, albeit shortened ones, the effectiveness of his parries was now halved, for as soon as he blocked one blow, another came from his off-side to exploit the opening in his guard. He found himself suddenly wishing for a buckler, or even the merest armored gauntlet upon his off-arm--but there was no help for it now as he dodged and parried with every ounce of skill and speed at his disposal. Vorador’s speed was relentless, his mercy nonexistent, and Raziel greatly envied the elder his formidable toughened skin as his own bloomed with red-splotched wounds from the blows he could not turn in time. So far the elder vampire had not managed to land a crippling blow, at least; though in the heat of battle it was difficult to say whether that was due to Raziel’s own efforts or Vorador’s restraint.

Frustrated, Raziel ducked another swift blow to the head, stepping to the side and stabbing outward--only to have his foot slip as it encountered not solid floor but the careless folds of an over-long window drapery. Vorador had maneuvered him neatly into the hazard, all unaware, and the velvet fabric provided no purchase against the slick marble. Raziel went down hard, aided by another crushing blow against one collarbone, a snarling cry of pain escaping as he felt the bone crack under the impact.

Vorador followed his advantage, club upraised as the fledgling, snarling, scrambled up -- and then the elder paused. The wrist-thick length of wood he held looked gnawed, so chopped and battered away in places that it seemed as if the piece would break entirely apart at the next hard blow. “Hn,” Vorador said contemplatively, examining first one, then the other baton. Then he stepped back, even as Raziel regained his feet. “Your defense appears fair, but your ambient perception is abysmal.” Tossing bis battered staff-pieces aside, Vorador strode down the wall of weapons, eyeing the options. He selected one from its peg, an odd jagged piece of steel about the length of a shortsword but with only one edge and several deep notches. The metal was thick, the blade inelegant next to all the ones hung around it. “Have you learned to use a targe?”

“Of course,” Raziel replied, vaguely insulted. Young he might be, but he was no rank human squire, untutored in the ways of war! He was a warrior born--or reborn, as the case might be. He would hardly be of much use on the battlefield if he could not wield a shield, a pike or a mace as well as sword and dagger. He shifted his feet, moving warily away from the draped windows as he regarded the elder vampire--and the sword-breaker he now wielded--with suspicion. He lifted a sardonic eyebrow, tilting his head. “Am I to assume you wish me to choose one?” He hurt--bone was slow to heal, and deep tissues not much faster. The metal pieces about his tender genitals that jabbed and distracted painfully with each movement were also a hindrance--but pride demanded that he continue to fight until Vorador was done with him, or until he could no longer pick himself up from the floor.

“Unless you wish me to select one for you, yes,” Vorador sniffed, turning to stalk to the center of the battlefield once more. “Though I suggest a mirror-backed style; with it, you might broaden your unfortunately narrow focus,” he added, watching Raziel move gingerly to the racks of arrayed armors. The ancient crooked a talon, and one of the small shields on the wall unhooked itself from its peg, and floated to hang midair beside Raziel, rotating slowly. The front was a solid curve of steel, from the center emerged a short spike. The back was held to the arm with a network of odd black webbing. Several strips of silver mirror were indeed inlaid around the rim.

Vorador’s ear twitched. “Fledglings who thieve, Zephon, sometimes find themselves separated from their fingers. Leave it, whelp.” At the side of the room, the red-haired fledgling scrambled back to his place near the weapons, leaving the terrified mortal to hang undisturbed in his chains.

Scowling a little at the insult, Raziel nonetheless reached out and took the shield. He inspected it briefly, finding it just as solid and finely made as the rest of the arms and armor on display, then pushed his off-arm through the webbing, slotting it in place. Tilting it from side to side, he could see the purpose of the mirrored surfaces, though he thought it would be all too easy to become distracted by the ever-shifting glimpses to his rear.

Pacing back out into the middle of the ballroom floor, Raziel settled his feet, limbering wrist and sword-arm as he swung the sword once, twice--working out the kinks and slowly-fading bruising upon arm and shoulder. His collarbone gave another sharp warning spike of pain, and his mouth tightened, concealing the flinch under a mask of concentration. Going up against a sword-breaker, especially wielded by a creature with Vorador’s immense strength, was difficult to say the least, and Raziel resolutely pushed away the thought of what the fine longsword he currently wielded was likely to look like at the end of it. Swords were meant for battle, even ones as precious as this.

“Shall we?” Raziel invited, golden eyes narrowed as he waited, poised and ready.

“Absolutely.” This time, Vorador launched the first blows, a whipfire series of rapid strikes. The old vampire’s expression was difficult to read on his leathery-skinned face, but there was none of that ancient jadedness or boredom that Raziel had seen earlier. Vorador was engaged, interested, even as he sought to wear his opponent down move by move. How long had it been since he’d enjoyed the opportunity to fight like this? No mortal could exchange more than a few blows with Vorador, even if the vampire were exquisitely careful -- sheer exhaustion would lay even the best fighting man low within a minute. But a fledgling needed no breath and little rest, and this one was really quite good -- footwork flowing and precise, aggressive in the attack, lithe and surprisingly fast. Hard to tell, though, what part of the whelp’s skill was inborn, and what part had simply been trained into him.

The swordbreaker was solid, landing heavily against Raziel’s small shield, even glancing blows hard enough to make the fledgling’s arm tingle. Vorador batted the whelp’s blade away again with a sharp clang of metal, and then instead of a counterattack, struck at Raziel’s sword, aiming to catch it between the slots of his own weapon.

Expecting the maneuver, Raziel retreated briefly, twisting his blade and disengaging from the elder’s own with the shriek of metal on metal. Then he lunged low, punching his shield inwards and up to catch the heavy notched blade with the metal-sheathed edge. He stood no chance of forcing Vorador backwards through brute force, but his strength was enough to entangle the elder’s sword. He stabbed inward, attempting to take advantage of the brief opening, but did little more than score the surface of Vorador’s armor before the elder vampire sent him reeling away with a stunning blow.

Raziel stumbled to one knee, shaking his head--then launched himself forward once more with a snarl. Their battle raged across the battered surface of the ballroom floor, forward and back in a lethal dance of steel and strength. The metal surface of Raziel’s shield was no longer pristine, battered and dented, great rents torn into the edges. His longsword had fared somewhat better--the length of it was still intact, even if the edges were no longer razor-keen, but notched and scored from glancing parries against the heavier, more solid blade. Only Vorador’s restraint, Raziel knew, had kept him on his feet thus far; and only the elder’s honest pleasure in the bout kept Raziel’s frustrated fury at bay. Determined to prove himself even in the face of such an overwhelming opponent, he pressed his attack once more, using every ounce of speed and skill he possessed, waiting for his opening. Catching a glimpse of Zephon as he ducked under another shattering blow, he had a sudden thought; if a frontal assault would not yield him victory, then perhaps trickery would ...

Raziel’s fullest attention only left Vorador for an instant, the barest flicker of a moment. It was enough. Bare-handed, Vorador struck, seized the battered tip of Raziel’s blade in his leathery palm. Steel sang, edge slipping into the swordbreaker’s slot, and then Vorador *twisted.* It took all of Raziel’s agility just to hang onto his grip and cost him the upper third of his blade. Shattering fragments of metal scythed the air, and Vorador never slowed. One blow, two, Raziel darted desperately for space enough to recover -- and his back hit the standing weapon stand. Too hard, too fast.

“I told you to broaden your focus, whelp, not cast it to the wind!” Vorador growled, wading in as the fledgling crashed over backwards, wooden lengths of axe haft and rack frame alike splintering under the elder’s heavy-spreading hooves. Blades scattered everywhere, clanging across the flagstones. The elder’s sword-breaker gouged a runnel four inches deep into the stone floor as Raziel scrabbled to dodge, to get to his feet amidst the wreckage. “Try a katana,” Vorador offered, even as he booted a stray breastplate aside to hack again at the fledgling. Somehow, in all the chaos, the hilt of a sword found its way into Raziel’s hand -- slim and fabric-wrapped, with only a minimal crossguard.

“A … what?” Raziel panted, confused and reflexively swiping at the elder vampire with his new blade to keep his opponent at bay--then, in the bare space that afforded, blinked at the sword that had found its way into his hand. It was strange indeed--blunted on one edge, razor-keen upon the other, the length of the blade a subdued curve that made it evident that this oddly-crafted sword was designed far more for cutting than stabbing attacks. Still, the balance was impeccable, the weight negligible as his fingers wrapped around that odd hilt.

Vorador pressed a new attack, and Raziel rolled to one side, finally managing to get his feet underneath him once more. Balancing both the ‘katana’ and his battered shield was awkward, but not impossible, and he soon adjusted, his bare feet providing much-needed traction as they battled back across the ballroom floor. He learned swiftly to parry only sparingly, and with the blunted side of the blade, and as Raziel continued to fight his focus seemed to sharpen, not only upon his opponent but upon the details of their chosen battleground: the cracked stone of the flooring beneath his feet, the scattered tangle of blades and armor kicked haphazardly about, the dark-curtained windows along the walls, even the massive wrought-iron and crystal chandelier that hung overhead.

The fledgling was, Vorador realized, nothing short of remarkable, needing bare moments to adapt his swing and style to an unfamiliar blade. Unless... perhaps the whelp had been trained in such a weapon? This was the problem, Vorador mused as he slammed the flat of Raziel’s blade away and leveled a solid punch at the side of the youngling’s head, with sparring a whelp already thoroughly drilled. It was almost impossible to determine if there was true talent behind all this training -- the spark of an inspired warrior under the mechanical action of near-perfect parries and well-practiced slashes.

Unable to hold himself still, Zephon paced nervously at the sidelines. The battle was a single raging blur now, the massive greenish elder pushing Raziel harder than Kain ever had, the speed such that the blades hummed with every swing, a malevolent metal vibration. The clang of striking steel hurt his ears. He could smell the elder’s spilled blood now, dense and smoky -- and Raziel’s too, a brighter counterpoint, thinner but more copious. But even those twin allures could not tempt Zephon to willingly put himself in the flashing danger before him. Raziel, he decided, would surely be killed, and then what? Would the ancient then torment Zephon thusly, too? Growling low in his throat with worry, Zephon stalked back and forth.

In the midst of that surging battle, Raziel’s bare foot came down on the head of a wickedly spiked maul. The fledgling stumbled, and Vorador took the opening. Lunging forward like a bull, shoulder lowered, he hit the whelp full-body, a massive blow that flung the youngling backwards. “Ignore your surroundings, and you risk being slain by the least peasant with a pitchfork and a caltrop,” Vorador snarled, stooping to sweep up the huge maul as if it weighted nothing, advancing with weapons upraised to end this game.

Laid flat by the blow, Raziel’s head cracked hard against the marble floor. His hand spasmed, the hilt of the katana jarred from his grip to skitter across the stone. Wheezing for breath he no longer needed, ears ringing, his eyes widened as he took in Vorador’s stance above him, the great hammer swinging upward to come down in one great crushing blow--

\--and in pure desperation he rolled, hands scrabbling for a weapon, anything at all. One hand fell upon a wooden haft, and he twisted, throwing the hand-axe with every ounce of skill and speed he possessed … but not at Vorador. The axe-head sliced through the air, tumbling, and embedded itself into the wooden panelling of the wall in a shower of splinters--and in so doing, sliced apart the thick rope that held up the great wrought-iron chandelier. Raziel continued his lunge without pause, diving aside as the rope hissed through its moorings, the enormous sculpted candelabrum swaying.

Then it fell--collapsing down about Vorador’s ears in an earsplitting thunderous crash of metal and cut glass. Shielding his head from the resulting hail of splintered glass and stone, Raziel froze where he was, half-crouched as he peered through the cloud of dust. Had he actually managed to injure the elder?

Shards and flecks of glass coated everything -- sparkling on the floor, glittering on Raziel’s clothing. Metal creaked, groaned, as it shifted and settled. The chandelier was a massive affair, perhaps eight feet across and containing a ton of delicate iron filigree, to say nothing of the now-shattered crystal.

For a single, shocked instant, there was silence.

Then Vorador’s dark rumble of laughter shivered through the stones, set the tiniest shards of crystal to vibrating. With a horrible wrenching squeal, the whole pile of fractured metal shifted, lifted away as the figure pinned beneath heaved himself to his feet. The ancient was rather the worse for wear -- thin leather armor hanging in tatters, skin gouged and scraped in a multitude of places, spreading ears battered. With a single effortless heave, Vorador overturned the entire fallen chandelier, shoving it aside. Without pause, he strode towards the fledgling, where Raziel half-crouched, blood spreading beneath one bare foot and more thin red vitae streaked across his skin. Before Raziel could dart away, Vorador seized him by the nape, bundling the squirming fledgling up under one arm.

“Well, perhaps not the *least* peasant, after all,” Vorador amended, admitting his error. The elder’s hooves crunched through the glass spread over the floor. Turning Raziel upright, Vorador set him down -- carefully, in deference to the whelp’s injuries -- in front of the terrified human. The mortal, unable to duck, had also been bloodied in the explosion of glass fragments.

Raziel snarled at the manhandling, perturbed at his failure. He had hoped his mad gamble would at least inflict more than a few minor scrapes! But Vorador seemed nigh-indestructible, and all of Raziel’s struggling availed him little.

Placed in front of the chained human, he shifted his weight to his uninjured foot, tongue flickering out to lick his lips at the alluring scent. Fear and bloodscent hung heavy in the air, sweet as perfume, and his hunger had been well-roused by both their battling and his injuries, as relatively minor as they were. Still, he made no attempt to lunge for the whimpering human’s throat, but instead cast an uncertain look at Vorador, unsure of the elder’s intentions. He was no new-raised fledgling, short-sighted and greedy, a slave to his appetites. He knew well the folly of attempting to claim prey an elder had marked as his own; Kain had beaten that lesson into him most thoroughly.

Vorador paused a moment, then arched a battered eyeridge. Polite little thing. “You may have this one, Raziel, for you well-deserve it. The only other fledgling to land such a blow at your age... was your sire.” That had involved a rather large portion of a mountaintop. On the other hand, Kain had been a week in recovering, so he supposed it evened out. “Once finished, you may assist me in plucking these iron points from my hide.” Honestly, what had he been thinking, forging a chandelier with thin and decidedly sharp whorls and points on the underside?

That said, Vorador turned to begin sweeping the shards of crystal away, plucking out the weapons still whole and gathering the rest of the wreckage into a great mound in the center of the room, all with neat telekinetic sweeps. A space now cleared, Vorador lifted his fist -- and the tiles in one spot of the stone floor began to rise with a sound like stone grinding, as if pushed up from beneath by long rectangles of solid stone. The tiles adjusted themselves, slowly forming a throne of sorts. The elder ignored the other Kainite fledgling, who sidled closer.

Raziel needed no other invitation. Sparing only a moment to give a lurking Zephon a warning snarl, Raziel turned to his prey. The human only had time for a single shrill shriek, cut abruptly short as razored fangs cut into his bloodied throat. Ignoring the thrashings of his prey, Raziel drank deep, eyes slitted half-shut in the pleasure of it. The human’s lifeblood was nothing like the thick, overwhelming potency of Vorador’s vitae, but it was satisfying all the same, lending warmth and strength to finely trembling limbs.

Still, Raziel had fed deeply and well at the wellspring of Vorador’s strength earlier, and his hunger was not great. It did not take him long to satiate his appetite, and he lifted his head, stepping away and licking his lips regretfully. The human was dead, but not truly drained dry--he did not wish to waste this bounty, but he also did not wish to gorge himself like some bloated parasite. Glancing at Zephon, he was inclined to leave the fledgling what was left--but a glimpse of Vorador, settling himself upon a new-made and makeshift throne, reminded him that it was not truly his kill to share.

 _Do not be greedy, Zephon--wait for the elder’s leave,_ he warned his brother silently. Then he turned and made his way to the waiting elder, refusing to limp despite what it cost him in pain. “Where … where do you wish me to begin, my lord?” he asked with assumed calm, as if they had not been battling furiously only moments before.

Zephon whined quietly, edging closer to the gradually-cooling corpse.

Vorador gestured Raziel closer. “Chest and shoulders, by the feel of it.” The scales that ran from Vorador’s nape down to his waist, plus the angle of his fall, had largely protected his back. The elder reclined, feeling a faint and rapidly fading, but very pleasant, soreness in his muscles. The fledgling had, surprisingly, given him a fair workout in that rapid half-hour of battle. He would have to command the fledgling’s presence here this evening, or perhaps -- Vorador eyed the youngling’s somewhat ginger step -- perhaps tomorrow morning. Lazily, Vorador crooked a talon towards one of the throne’s armrests, a broad stone ledge scarcely higher than the seat. “Do not put weight on healing wounds, whelp. Kneel here.”

Raziel hesitated, eyeing both the armrest and the elder vampire. Obedience, he reminded himself, and straightening, stepped forward, climbing up to kneel carefully upon the marble ledge. The makeshift throne was remarkably steady, and such a position did made it easier to reach Vorador’s head and shoulders--even kneeling thus only put Raziel eye to eye with the larger vampire. Vorador lounged at his ease, and Raziel did not wait for the warning growl, but reached out, looking for the black-iron points embedded in that verdant hide. Most were easily found, if not quite as easily removed; the elder’s flesh had sealed around them in the brief interval it had taken Raziel to drink. Raziel was forced to pull them free by force, black-nailed fingers closing about each splintered piece of metal in turn and yanking it free with a sharp yank. He had paused after the first, apprehensively anticipating some manner of retribution or bellow of pain from the elder vampire; but Vorador made no reaction at all, watching him with an enigmatic gaze, as if he had finger-length metal shards embedded in his hide every day. In the absence of punishment, Raziel continued--and when the obvious wounds had been dealt with, ran pale, sword-calloused fingertips over the fine-grained skin, tracing the lines of muscle and bone, searching for smaller fragments that might have escaped his notice.

The crafted metal bits rang as they hit the floor, bouncing over the flagstones, rolling to rest in folds of shredded leather -- all that remained of Vorador’s armoring jerkin. Zephon eased himself closer, attracted by the rich scent of the blood there, but paused, bit anxiously at his lip. What was Raziel doing? What could his brother be planning? He couldn’t see if Raziel had a concealed knife... maybe Raziel meant for Zephon to use his?

More leather fluttered to the ground as Raziel plucked free another few strips of once-fine clothing, which clung to Vorador’s torso only by virtue of the blood which stuck them there. For several minutes, the elder vampire’s only movement was an occasional turn or bend to expose the last of the little stubs of iron. At last, when Raziel set himself to searching out the smallest remaining pieces by feel, the elder bestirred himself. Feeling the muscles move under that thick hide was like sensing the roll of heavy iron cables. “I did enjoy seeing your fangs, pup. Perhaps....” with deceptively lazy speed, Vorador reached out, wrapped long talons around the fledgling’s calf, dragging the whelp’s leg to where he might inspect Raziel’s foot. The move was sudden, forcing Raziel to either kneel astraddle the elder or land in his lap.

“I think I shall again command your presence here this evening,” Vorador mused, drawing the smooth back of one talon over the pad of Raziel’s foot, lingering at each of the pair of deep red pockmarks, all that remained of the places where a pair of spikes had pieced nearly through. They were healing rapidly, and would probably be gone within a few hours. “If this and your shoulder are the worst of your wounds.”

Raziel flailed briefly, taken off-guard by the sudden possessive grasp of his ankle. He shifted, half-falling awkwardly into a straddling position, unable to prevent the briefest snarl at the manhandling and unable to suppress a flinch as the metal egg within him shifted position, pressing hard against the sensitive walls of his ass--but otherwise did not protest Vorador’s presumption. At the elder vampire’s musings, he frowned, unsure whether they were meant to be compliment or insult.

“You believe my ability to be so lacking as to require further training, my lord?” he said, obliquely nettled at the thought. He might not be as ancient and powerful as the creature before him, or Kain himself--but surely his skills as a warrior were of *some* worth? Then, catching Zephon’s fidgeting out of the corner of his eye, he added, “My lord--may Zephon have what remains of my kill? It seems a waste to leave blood to spoil ….” He also did not wish to leave Zephon so close and unwatched; who knew what plots were hatching in that febrile little mind?

Vorador arched a heavy-horned brow. “Further training is always a benefit, Raziel, always. Even for me, learning never ceases. As for your kill -- you may dispose of it as you wish.” Interesting, that -- clearly, Kain was a rather more rigorous, perhaps jealous, sire than Vorador was. In part, of course, that was because Vorador had simply lacked the time and interest to instill careful respect in his own multitudinous brood. Handling just five -- soon, six -- would surely be easier. On the other hand, Kain’s fledglings were as generally destructive and vicious as any vampires ten times their ages, so perhaps Kain’s task was not so facile, after all. “Besides which, I do not believe we have found precisely the right style of weapon for you, yet. An estoc, I wonder? A claymore? How do you fare with basket hilts?” As he mused, Vorador thoughtfully released the fledgling’s foot, reached instead to cup Raziel’s waist with both big hands, stroking slowly down the younger vampire’s hips, smoothing over the backs of his thighs.

Against his will, Raziel shivered, the lingering remnants of bloodlust and battle-fury combining to make the stroke of those talons against his body far more … intriguing than they otherwise might have been. It took a minute to muster the concentration required to Whisper to Zephon.

 _Zephon--you may have the rest of the blood._ The impatient fledgling was already moving, edging towards the hanging body, having overheard Vorador’s answer, and Raziel suppressed a grimace. Would the whelp never learn to control his appetites?

Returning his attention to Vorador, he took a moment to consider the question put before him. “I have not had much opportunity to use a basket-hilted sword,” he said slowly, trying to think back to the various weapons scavenged over the years since his rebirth. “They are not in common use. In truth, superlative blades are difficult to come by.” Kain, of course, had the Reaver, as well as other, lesser magical blades, but it went without saying that his offspring were forbidden to touch them. Thus they had to make due with what could be scavenged from bandits and guardsmen, or occasionally a richer noble. The former oft had swords made of little better than pig iron, while the latter … well, an overfed noble might possess a blade chased in gold and adorned with jewels, but rarely were such decorative court blades truly masterworks of the swordsmith’s art. “And I do not believe I have ever heard of an … estoc, you said?”

Ignoring the other fledgling’s... enthusiastic lunge and bite, Vorador spoke. “Estoc -- a little slimmer than a broadsword, but longer. Particularly fine for thrusting.” Not used much anymore -- which, in his estimation, was a pity. Vorador cocked his head in momentary thought. “I shall see if one might be laying about the forge somewhere. And you should acquire some practice with the basket hilts -- they can save your fingers. What about a karabela?” Vorador’s slow, sweeping explorations found a sore place over the fledgling’s collarbone. Pressing there did not exactly engender a flinch, but did cause the whelp’s mouth to tighten. Interested, Vorador began to loosen the small ivory buttons that ran down the front of Raziel’s tunic, talon-tips dextrous and capable.

Raziel shifted, but suppressed the urge to protest as his tunic was opened. If giving Vorador free reign to explore was what was required to lull the elder vampire into complacency, then so be it. He had already found there were harder prices to pay. “A karabela … I am not sure. I believe I heard a group of mercenaries speak of them once, but … I do not believe I know what such a sword would look like.” Vague descriptions of exotic weaponry did not help to identify them, not without examples at hand. The cutting edges of Vorador’s talons teased the fine fabric of Raziel’s tunic aside, baring his chest and tracing experimentally over the still-fractured collarbone; Raziel set his back teeth at the hot flare of pain at the touch, hissing in a breath but otherwise refusing to flinch. “You … have a forge, my lord?” Was it possible that all the arms and armor in this room had been crafted by the creature in front of him? It was hard to believe, but … Vorador’s existence, by the elder’s own admission, had spanned millennia. Perhaps that was time enough to create such a treasure trove as he had seen ….

Vorador’s low rumble of laughter again shivered through Raziel’s bones -- at this distance, it was as if a humming had taken up residence under the fledgling’s skin. “A forge? Yes, you might say that,” Vorador said, thoroughly amused. The fledgling’s fine skin was a patina of light and shadow, dark bruises fading visibly. The collar was particularly bad, and Vorador thought it likely broken. A failing on Vorador’s part -- he’d meant to place his strikes only over the thickest muscle. Vorador stroked there more firmly, very carefully, determining the extent of the break. Then he moved on, tracing other bruises, finding chunks of broken glass caught under the waistband of Raziel’s breeches. That wouldn’t do at all. The bits of crystal rang as Vorador brushed them to the floor, and then, bringing the cutting tips of his talons to bear, the ancient hooked the fine fabric of those trousers and commenced to slitting them open. Each hand drew three parallel cuts slowly over Raziel’s buttocks and down his thighs, only just lightly scraping the pallid skin beneath.

One of the weapons upon the wall unhooked itself from its peg, drifted close, as if carried by an unseen servitor. A neat flex of telekenesis brought it close beside the throne, hilt up, for Raziel’s inspection. “This is a karabela, fledgling. The shape of the hilt facilitates those nimble circular cuts you favor.” The weapon was indeed odd, the hilt hooked and recurved so that it somewhat resembled the profile of a raptor’s head. The blade itself was double-fullered down its length, elaborately engraved at the base, and oddly blunt on both sides for the first handspan or so. Near the tip, the weapon flared and curved, like the flight feather of a bird.

Blinking at the floating weapon, Raziel automatically reached for it, fingers closing about the hilt. The elder’s telekinetic grip disappeared as he did so, leaving him to take the sword’s weight--which, once again, was not nearly so heavy as the broad blade might indicate. Like all the other swords in the elder’s armory, this one was a masterwork, fine polished steel gleaming in the dim light. He turned his wrist, pointing the blade outwards, then turning it in tiny circles, listening in pleasure as the razored edge hissed through the air, gauging how the sword’s balance dragged at his wrist. He could not test the sword thoroughly, of course--not in his current awkward seated position. But he could admire it, all the same.

“Interesting--slashing, yes. Perhaps hooking attacks as well?” he murmured, as much to himself as to Vorador. That hooked point--if one could snag a limb, or armor, and yank one’s opponent inward, into the reach of vampiric talons and strength …. He shivered, skin prickling as his trousers were cut away, but kept his focus on the sword as best as he was able, deeming it the safer option. Then those talons cut lightly into his skin, and he jerked slightly at the transient flare of _pain/pleasure_ , keening a little in reaction. He was suddenly once again aware of his genitals, still confined within their metal bands, but no less sensitive--or responsive--because of it.

“And chopping,” Vorador said, lifting one hand from Raziel’s hip. Neatly-cut strips of fabric fluttered away like wide ribbons. With those same sharp talons, Vorador reached out for Raziel’s off-hand, carefully unwrapping the fledgling’s smaller, softer fingers from the hilt. He moved Raziel’s hand up, above the crossguard, to wrap around the blade itself, where the edges were blunted and the heavy engraving afforded sure purchase. The fledgling likely knew this hand placement quite well, but the curvature of this particular blade gave such blows singular force. “You can hack through platemail with this grip, if you have to. The potential leverage is extraordinary.” Casually, Vorador completed the removal of Raziel’s breeches on the other side, leaving the fledgling with only his waistband, and the rest of the material puddled around his knees. Carefully, Vorador wrapped his talons around the fledgling’s constrained cock, checking the manner in which the cage had settled over the past few hours, making sure the device had not been disturbed. Leverage, after all, was everything.

“Tr-truly?” The question was interrupted by a gasped breath as Raziel stiffened, a thrill of unwanted pleasure snaking up his spine as the elder handled his confined cock. Encouraged by the attentions, his flesh began to lift, the sensitive skin tightening under that razored clasp. His hands spasmed around the sword, which did *not* droop--but no longer held quite the entirety of his attention anymore.

“Mn. I will not vouch for the edge, should you use it so very often -- if memory serves, I was trying a clay flux method at the time.” A few more gentle strokes, leathery palm over tender skin, and Vorador began to unlatch the individual petals of the sheath, folding them each back in turn, freeing the soft flesh within. The press of the embedded gems had left small, angry blemishes along the fledgling’s shaft, but these points vanished swiftly. Otherwise, the whelp was undamaged. Satisfied, Vorador followed the chain slung low on the fledgling’s hips, back to where it threaded through the butt of the plug. “It yielded an edge little better than traditional quenching, unfortunately,” Vorador continued conversationally, teasing at the plug, making the egg inside Raziel twitch and jerk. He gave the toy a firm press, working it deeper, making the chains across Raziel’s hips tighten and tugging at the ring around his genitals.

Zephon was nearly finished with the corpse, having mostly mutilated the throat. Licking his gory mouth, the neonate chanced to glance towards his brother, and paused at the scene before him. What in Kain’s name...? Raziel did hold a weapon, though -- closer to the elder than Kain would ever have allowed outside sparring practice. _Shall I kill the creature, Raziel, while it is distracted?_ Zephon offered, impressed by the way his elder had manipulated the situation, and moving to creep a little closer.


	11. Chapter 11

_W-What? No!_ Distracted as he was, Raziel’s reply was perhaps a bit harsher than he had intended, memories of battle and fire echoing along the Whisper. _Do not attack him, Zephon--not unless I say! We must pick our moment carefully, if it comes to that. He is far too strong for mere claws or blades!_ Zephon had not been conscious, for the most part, when his brothers had battled Vorador for his freedom; he had not seen how poorly their attacks had fared. Even the most puissant magics had failed to do anything but inconvenience the elder. No, if they were to escape, it would be through speed and trickery, not through brute force--and for the former to succeed, Vorador would need to be … distracted. Lulled into inattention, at the very least.

Vorador pressed the metal egg inward, and Raziel gasped, his fingers spasming about the hilt of the sword. Unconstrained now by a metal sheath, his cock was filling, rising with each tug and press upon the ring about its base, unconcerned with such petty things as strategems or disobedient fledglings. A brief panted gasp broke free, and Raziel grasped desperately for support with his free hand, pale fingers latching on to a muscled shoulder and clinging fiercely.

Zephon paused in confusion, fingertips passing subtly over the hilt of the slim dagger he’d found and concealed. Surely it was long enough to reach the elder’s vitals, and Zephon had killed often enough that way. He rather enjoyed waiting until a guard was fully engaged in fighting Raziel or one of the others -- and then creeping close with a smallblade. _Are you sure?_ he asked, skeptical.

The corner of Vorador’s mouth turned up as the youngest fledgling eased a step closer. He swirled the pad of his tumb-talon over the head of Raziel’s cock, spreading the slickness that had gathered there. “Your sibling seems eager to join us, Raziel,” he rumbled, entertaining himself with the plug -- and the fledgling’s gasps -- for a time. After a few moments, he began to draw it out with a gradual twisting motion, one achingly slow fraction at a time.

 _Yes!_ Raziel Whispered fiercely--then shuddered, convulsing as the metal orb was pulled outward, slowly working its way past the ring of his ass. _Do not draw more attention to yourself, Zephon, unless you also wish to endure Vorador’s attentions._ The last few words fractured as the egg was finally withdrawn, the chain hooked around its base tight enough to dig into his hips, drawing the cockring painfully downward.

Through the aching pleasure and the pain, Raziel mustered up some semblance of coherency, and shook his head. “You swore--ah!--you would not harm him. I am holding … to my end of the bargain, am I not?”

“A little intermeddling is hardly harm...” Vorador pointed out, then sighed as Raziel’s visage twisted fiercely -- though that could have been due to pain or pleasure, as well as protest. “Very well. Go amuse yourself elsewhere, neonate.” That ordered, Vorador reached to unlock the fine chain around Raziel’s hips. He slipped it free, unlinking the two toys, and discarded both the the golden length and the finely-crafted egg to the floor. Raziel was still slicked inside, the elder found, teasing the grasping little ring of muscle with the tip of a talon -- though probably not enough for full use. Vorador reached out, plucked a three-fingered suede glove from the empty air, and began pulling it on.

Zephon paused, worrying at his lower lip. It didn’t look like Raziel was enduring anything particularly unpleasant, particularly compared with Kain’s attentions. And what would their Sire do, if he knew that his eldest was giving to another that which belonged to Kain alone? Zephon wondered if he could use this. Possibly... but how would be best? Caught up in indecision, Zephon shifted his weight nervously.

 _Go, Zephon!_ Raziel snapped, thoroughly out of patience--then arched with a throttled cry as Vorador sank one suede-covered talon into the stretched hole of his ass. As little as he wanted an audience for this, he would have tolerated it; it would hardly have been the first time Kain had toyed with his eldest in front of his brethren. But the threat Vorador posed to Kain’s youngest fledgling was still present, and it was Raziel’s duty to see him safe.

Another moment’s hesitation, and then Zephon left, slinking into the shadows--though not without a last inscrutable look backwards at his preoccupied brother. Growling a little, low in his throat, Raziel lowered the sword still locked in one hand, setting it tip-first upon the ground, then letting it fall completely as he shuddered under the impetus of another twisting thrust of that broad talon.

Vorador rumbled his enjoyment as he teased the fledgling a little more, slicking it in, twisting slowly out. His talon left the fledgling’s little hole several times, returned with some slick substance, pushed in. Raziel writhed like a live thing, at the mercy of the sensations Vorador commanded, in a manner the elder found exquisitely satisfying. After a time, Vorador introduced the tip -- just the tip -- of a second talon alongside the first, carefully working the youngling’s ass open for him, hissing pleasure as the fledgling’s short talons kneaded at his shoulders. Even still, the little ring of muscle was exquisitely tight, resisting even slow persuasion. Vorador could not help but recall vividly how it felt stretched around him, how the whelp’s body rippled and trembled even as it sheathed him....

“I believe, fledgling, that you might prefer to take my length before it engorges entirely, would you not?” Vorador’s low purr of laughter seemed to take up residence in Raziel’s bones, as tangible a press as the ancient’s great aura. “If so, you may unlace and prepare me now.”

Biting back a whimper as slick, hard talons stretched his hole, Raziel nodded, shuddering. In truth, as good as it had felt at the end, he would prefer not to try and take Vorador’s monstrous length at all--the edge between excruciating pain and pleasure was far too thin for his taste. But it was obvious that he did not have a choice in the matter.

Reaching downward, he brushed away a few remaining scraps of the elder vampire’s armor--then settled fingers upon the placket of the reinforced leather trousers below. The bulge beneath was not even half-hard yet, but still intimidatingly large, and it seemed to swell even further as he watched. Another slick slide, lubricant commingled with Vorador’s own seed as it coated the talon that slid deep within, and his fingers shook briefly before undoing the knots that held the elder’s cock confined.

Once free, Raziel cradled the heavy length in one hand. Vorador obligingly pushed a wide bowl of thick oil to where he could see it, much to Raziel’s relief; spit or some other makeshift lubrication would hardly suffice for this! Bending his head obediently, he dipped his fingers in the unguent, stroking firmly over the hardening flesh, the broad and darkening head, which stirred and lifted like a live thing underneath his fingers.

It did not take long to coax that spear of flesh to nearly full attention. Its length was every bit as terrible as before, the glans drawn back to expose all those alien, flexing little spines, the heavy pattern of ridges and scales beginning to grow prominent, veins chasing the underside. The head was smaller, proportionate to the wrist-thick mass of the shaft, but that... that would change, far too soon. The fledgling’s hands were sure and skilled, and each slow slide of Vorador’s talons into the whelp’s clenching ass served as potent reminder of how utterly perfect the fledgling would feel, jerking and struggling around him.

“Enough, Raziel,” Vorador rumbled, finally withdrawing his talon-tips. “You may kneel up over me now. I want to feel you move.”

Raziel shivered--but not in anticipation, a warning frisson of fear prickling over his skin like lightning. Pushing away unwanted memories, he moved as he was bid--keeping one hand upon that thickening cock, and kneeling up to straddle the elder vampire’s hips. Unsure of just how far Vorador wished him to go--at times Kain had wanted to see his eldest impale himself, and at others, had taken the choice from him, forcing him down and using Raziel’s body as he saw fit--he maneuvered himself until Vorador’s turgid cock pressed firmly at the entrance to his body, the broad head nuzzling at the stretched and tender hole. The sensation was maddening, achingly pleasureable, and he let another low, growling whimper escape as he slipped another hand down between his legs, bypassing his own half-erect cock to pull himself even further open. Then, slowly, Raziel began to force himself downward, impaling himself upon that waiting spear.

Vorador’s big talons flexed around the fledgling’s waist, but he made no effort to press the fledgling faster. The whelp was superb -- determined, obedient, obviously accustomed to this use despite his exquisite tightness and those soft unwilled little sounds that escaped Raziel’s throat. The pleasure... it was like dipping his talon tips into molten gold, a sensation perhaps of heat and perhaps of pressure, decadent all the same. Just incredible that the fledgling could be so tight and still take it, pressing down around him, a slow enveloping sensation. And the sight of that bruised body, head thrown back, eyes half-shut in concentration, fingers kneading as they clutched Vorador’s shoulder for balance -- ah, extraordinary. It took effort to keep from growing too excited, too hard. He felt it when the fullness of his cockhead breached the little ring of muscle, sank in, the tip of him enclosed in a slick vice. The fledgling made a sound, a quiet whimper bitten back behind gritted teeth, that went like a red bolt of lust straight to the core of him.

“Take it all, fledgling -- to the very base,” Vorador growled when Raziel seemed to pause, panting shallowly. His talons tightened on the whelp’s hips, feeling the muscles shudder under his grip, but not applying force -- not yet.

Raziel wanted to snarl defiance in the face of that order--could not the elder see that he was *trying*?--but fear of retribution kept him silent. Instead he nodded blindly, disheveled strands of hair falling into his eyes. He gathered himself as Kain had taught him, trying to relax the internal muscles that resisted the intrusion of that thick cock--then dropped downward, pushing himself brutally into his own impalement. The head was deeper now, stretching the walls of his body painfully apart, laying claim to every inch, the engorged ridges of that shaft rubbing hard against tender and distended flesh. Any vestiges of Raziel’s own arousal had long fled, chased away by the ache of being so brutally cored--and Vorador was still only half-seated within him. Biting down upon his lip hard enough to draw blood, Raziel tried to still the fine tremors that wracked his muscles, gathering both his strength and his resolve for another attempt.

The pleasure of being enveloped so quickly was fantastically intense, a brilliant bliss. And seeing the whelp yield up his pain so eagerly, such a willing sacrifice... oh, beautiful. Vorador’s talons flexed in resistance, just enough to keep the fledgling from tearing himself in his determination, no more, savoring the exquisite pressure, the quiet gasping sounds. Raziel was warm, nearly hot as a human from his recent feeding and the paces Vorador had put him through. Fledglings burned blood faster than their elders, spent more of it as heat -- and oh, it had been ages since Vorador had toyed with a whelp so young....

Vorador could feel, could see, the tip of him deep inside the fledgling’s belly, a subtle lump whenever Raziel exhaled hard. The head expanded inside, flaring like a clenching fist, even as the fledgling forced it deeper.

A few more rocking pushes, and the whelp was seated in Vorador’s lap, impaled there, the petals of the golden flower still clasped around his genitals lightly scraping Vorador’s belly. “There, good boy,” Vorador rumbled, stroking down the fledgling’s shuddering back. “You’ve done well. Rest, just like this, relax...” pure bliss, and even the little twitches that came with each of the fledgling’s panted breaths threatened to undo him. His talons stayed on the fledgling’s hips, to keep the whelp from moving too much. “I could stay like this for hours, fledgling. Would you like that, Raziel? To sheathe me, while I decipher old texts, or design a new blade? Let me see you stroke yourself, whelp.”

Raziel did not want to move; wanted only to remain still as stone in the hopes that the coring ache within him would subside. But his own body was resistant to his command, shivering convulsively, tremoring inside and out. For several long moments, all he could hear was the hissing rush of blood in his ears, hearing the low rumble of Vorador’s command vibrating along his bones without comprehension. The elder had to repeat his command a second time before Raziel could understand it; and under that watchful and heated golden gaze, one hand unlocked itself from its death-grip, creeping slowly to cradle his own forgotten cock.

His fingers tightened, almost punishingly hard, as if the outside pain would help balance that within. There had been no brutality this time, only the threat of violence; but that, Raziel was finding, did not make him feel any less broken open, his legs winged wide over muscled thighs, his flesh rearranged to accommodate Vorador’s pleasure. He began to caress the soft flesh of his cock, finely shaking fingers falling into familiar rhythms--but arousal was slow in coming when each small shift and movement brought another spark of pain, a palpable reminder of Vorador’s claim.

Fully erect now, as swollen and hard as he’d been that first time, Vorador leaned back with eyes slitted, watching the fledgling for a time, enjoying those little twitching flinches around him. He could feel the throb of his own syrup-thick blood through his organ, held deep in the slick clasp of the fledgling’s body. The side of the fledgling’s hand brushed his belly as Raziel obediently stroked himself, a light and enchanting sensation.

One particularly forceful pass of the fledgling’s hand brought the open petals of Raziel’s cockcage to scrape against Vorador’s skin, and the elder rumbled a short note of pique. He caught the fledgling’s wrist and drew palm away from tender flesh. Still soft, Raziel’s organ was pinkish, perhaps a little bruised-looking. “Hn.” The ancient vampire placed Raziel’s hand back onto his leathery shoulder for balance, and then began unbuckling the cage. “I said ‘stroke’, fledgling, not ‘scour.’” He freed the golden cage, and set it on the floor, the metal clinking against stone. After a moment’s thought, the elder replaced the hard cage with a softer cockring, a snug leather band summoned to hand with an easy spark of magery and buckled into place with delicate touches.

Then, slipping a taloned hand up under the whelp’s open tunic, Vorador stroked slowly down Raziel’s back, easing the fledgling closer against his armored chest. The curve of his talons traced the subtle lines of each vertebrae, each corded muscle, playing over skin soft as suede. A knotted place at the small of Raziel’s back attracted the attentions of those edged fingers, and Vorador lingered there.

The fledgling’s pain was no less delectable like this, Vorador decided, enjoying each fine shiver, each tremble against him for several minutes. Still, if the whelp remained so deliciously tight, it might be a very long time before he might make further use of the creature without damaging him. “Easy, youngling,” Vorador rumbled. “Relax into it....”

“I … am trying, my lord,” Raziel replied, doing his best not to snap, not to let his frustration show--and not entirely succeeding. The slow caress of those talons over his skin helped, in an odd way. Enveloped as he was by Vorador’s scent, the heavy molten metal press of his power, the touch could not be comforting, not in the way of his brothers, or that of his Sire--it did not speak of safety or of blood-kin. But the care taken not to harm, the careful edges of taloned fingers brushing delicately over his back, drawing whorls and delicate lines of sensation, the knowledge that the merest pressure could turn those slow caresses into something far more dangerous, those cutting edges slicing through flesh down to the very bone … that had its own and different kind of thrill. It was akin to a sword-dance, in a way--giving oneself over to instinct and the turns of fate, even when facing an opponent immensely more powerful.

By degrees, that internal ache lessened, his body adjusting around the intruder with subtle rippling shifts. The pain did not disappear--that was hardly possible--but became something familiar, something endurable. Raziel could not help but feel a dim kind of gratitude for Vorador’s patience, for being granted that small space--disloyal as the thought might be, he did not think Kain would have granted him such a courtesy.

Concentrating, he shifted experimentally, moving only the slightest bit--and bit back a gasp as even that fractional movement made the cock within him press hard against the walls of his body, sliding slickly. His fingers flexed impotently upon Vorador’s arms, digging deep, and for the first time he dared look upward, looking for direction from that heavy-planed face.

“Hn, so I see,” Vorador said, the sound a heavy bass vibration. The words indicated no particular humor, but that craggy, warped visage... betrayed, perhaps, a kind of amusement both very old and very alien. The elder ran his talon-tips over muscles that still shivered a little from exertion, and others that still trembled a little from pain. Finding Raziel’s hip, he brushed away a thin, dried line of blood, like polishing a blemish from the curve of an alabaster carving. “Let us try this diversion again, shall we? Lean back... just so.” Vorador kept one hand behind Raziel’s back, and it was like reclining against a stone wall, no give. The shift and tilt of the fledgling’s hips -- subtle though the movement was -- called forth new little twitches, new reactions to savor and enjoy.

Vorador permitted the fledgling more time to adjust, to heal, even as he entertained himself by exploring Raziel’s chest and shoulders with his free hand. Slow stroking motions brought him to the young vampire’s nipple, and he lingered there too, testing the fledgling’s responses with the pebbled back of his talon, the scrape of the cutting edge. “Tell me, Raziel, does your sire not instruct you to perform for his pleasure? I wish you to do the same for me. Lick your palm -- just like that -- and let me see you stroke yourself.”

Desperate for anything that might give pleasure instead of pain, Raziel did as he was bid. Dragging a tongue over his palm, he reached down once again to cradle his soft cock--far more gently this time. Closing his eyes, he did his best to ignore the alien press of the elder’s aura all about him, instead imagining it was Kain--arrogant, faintly amused and impatient, each razored touch commanding his obedience, spurring his arousal. He caressed himself, fingers loosely ringed about delicate flesh as he stroked slowly down his length. His fingertips dragged lightly over the sensitive underside, teasing the crown of his cock; and his arousal began to mount by slow degrees, until he was arching slightly into Vorador’s grip, shivering now in pleasure rather than pain.

“Like … this, my lord?” Raziel forced out, the words stuttering at another taloned caress over the pebbled rise of one nipple that trailed downwards, marking the rise and fall of muscle over bone as it traced down his side.

Vorador watched the fledgling settle himself, toes flexing as those dark-nailed fingers ghosted over sensitive and stirring flesh. Slowly, the ancient settled his leathery talons again on Raziel’s hips, keeping the whelp steady as he touched himself. “Oh yes...” -- yes indeed, head thrown back, eyes slitted shut, soft skin warm and flushed from feeding... a feast for the eyes as well as for his lusts. Vorador’s talon-edges traced slow circles over those hips, just gentle little brushes. “That is better, fledgling, is it not? It helps you to endure my length, the depth to which I’ve taken you, the ache in your belly.” The elder’s voice was a dark rumble, the growl of distant earthquake, an insidious whisper to the back of the brain. “Do you like to feel your clawtips there? Those points prickling lightly, carefully over the head, down the underside of your shaft... But it’s not wet enough for you, is it? Not so slick as you like it. Run those soft fingers across your inner thighs for me, the place where we join... and anoint yourself.”

Shivering, Raziel did not open his eyes, instead letting that voice command his obedience alone, vibrating down to his very bones. He shifted--the small movement forcing another shudder, another cry half-silenced within his throat as that broad, blunt head pressed hard against his belly--and slipped a hand langorously down over his hip, between his spread thighs, to where he was stretched wide over Vorador’s dark-flushed cock. The slickness where they were joined was no longer just oil alone; blood from the forcible entry had mingled with escaped trickles of the elder’s seed, spreading over his thighs and adorning Vorador’s flesh. He dipped his fingers in it, smearing them across the slick and soft skin--then stroked that commingled lubricant over his cock, stroking it over his erect flesh. The smell was unmistakable--the spice of the oil, the scent of his own blood--and over it all, the musk-iron scent of Vorador’s seed, now marking him both inside and out. He dipped his fingers again unbidden, his breath quickening as he traced rusty, oil-slick patterns of arousal upon his skin.

Vorador’s indrawn breath was a hiss, a harsh gasp of lust, like hot metal sinking into water. Wondrous, such magnificent obedience held in his hands, those quiet sounds and leashed shudders a potent call to desire. Vorador’s talon tips traced light patterns over the fledgling’s hips as he watched Raziel attend himself, cock gradually filling, the buckled band of leather about its base a further subtle spur to erection.

“Good boy,” the elder breathed, voice a low and intimate growl, an insinuating rumble. “Yes, just like that... and yet... I think you need more, do you not? Every time you move, you can feel me press inside you, can feel each ridge, each scale. Do you remember how that roughness can slide across the place which pleasures you? Would you not have that bliss again? It is yours for the taking... just so.” Vorador’s hands tightened fractionally on Raziel’s hips, steadying, applying only the lightest guiding pressure.

Raziel shuddered--and even he could no longer tell whether it was from fear or want. The blunt, burning sensation of being invaded had faded as he had stroked himself, obedient to Vorador’s command--but the deep, overstretched ache remained. Then those great talons shifted, tilting his hips and pressing upward, ever so slightly.

“--Ah!” The abortive cry caught in his throat as the pressure within shifted, Vorador’s now-fully erect cock dragging against the tight-clasped flesh, pulling at the overstretched mouth of his ass. Another shift, a slight rocking motion, and that ridged flesh pressed unerringly against that hidden bundle of nerves within; purest sensation lancing upward like a bolt of lightening. “M-my lord, I …” _cannot,_ he wanted to say, but did not; hard-won experience had taught Raziel the folly of attempting to deny an elder anything they desired, possible or not.

“Easy, fledgling -- shh...” Vorador’s low-rumbling litany was a vibrating over skin, a sound which took up residence somewhere in the center of Raziel’s chest. “Just slowly now, in time with the motion as you stroke yourself.” Patient in a way beyond mortal comprehension, Vorador guided the fledgling’s body until at last strong thighs flexed, shivering, and Raziel slowly rocked back down. Even that small movement was bliss, a vise-tight enveloping, so wet and slick and hot.... “Is that not good? To feel it, so deep inside you... and now up for me again, fledgling, easy... a little at a time....” The whelp was so tight that even the slightest withdrawing felt like being suckled in the clasp of a long and supple throat, pure perfection.

The fledgling made another quiet sound, stoppered behind a closed throat, and Vorador rumbled deeply. “Good boy,” he repeated, bending his head to drag long eye-teeth over the side of Raziel’s neck, unsubtle reminder of the whelp’s purpose and his place. “Move for me,” Vorador rumbled, a low and intimate growl.

Raziel whimpered, losing the last remnants of his dignity under the impetus of that command. But he moved, lifting himself slightly upward, only to sink back downward. Every movement was slow, his hips rocking in a primal rhythm as slick fingers played over his cock, feeling the heavy length shift and push deep inside with each shift of his hips. The pain … was less now, and a new ache had taken its place; a slow-burning need that made him shudder each time he rocked into those talons, felt the broad, iron-hard length of the elder vampire’s cock claiming him utterly, slick seed and oil seeping over the tight-stretched skin where they were joined. Daring greatly, Raziel began to rock harder against his impalement, his thighs taut and quivering with the effort of each rise and fall, shuddering as he moved.

“Ah, yes...” Vorador’s words caught, his attention so absorbed he had neglected to take a breath. The pleasure was so encompassing, so consuming. _Just. Like. This,_ he Whispered, each sending measured, slipped into the fledgling’s mind, an insidious murmur. The flex of his talons kept Raziel’s hips at the angle that made the fledgling gasp, subtly guiding, keeping the rocking thrusts slow, each movement a gradual honeyed glide.

_We used to share my playthings, your Sire and I... _The low thrum of Vorador’s Whisper came with images, a subliminal red-tinted flicker -- pale skin blood-flecked, a tangle of linen, a faceless fledgling’s head thrown back while the *feathered lightning* padded like a panther behind him. _How pleased he would be, to see this... oh yes.___

Raziel gave a broken cry of denial, shaking his head--he was Kain’s, no other, his lord’s firstborn!--but the merest mention of his sire caused his body to tighten, a shivering thrill to prickle over his skin. Kain had trained him well; the thought of his sire’s pleasure was enough to spark his own, to soften the last remnants of resistance into submission. “... Sire …” The word escaped, the barest thread of a plea. He wanted to feel the overwhelming sharp lightning-spark of Kain’s power, to subsume himself in his sire’s scent even as his body was taken, inexorably claimed. He sank downward, fingers clawing inward upon armored jade skin at the penetration of Vorador’s massive cock. His own, now fully erect and aching, seemed small and soft next to the rod of flesh buried within, and he stroked himself with a shaking hand, sensations ratcheting inexorably higher with each shift, each thrust. His pleasure, long delayed, was back in full measure, building inexorably … and only if he ensured Vorador’s climax, he knew, would he be perhaps allowed his own.

 _So you like that, do you..._ Vorador’s dark musing was strained, thick with lust. He could feel everything, could feel the tiny spines around the crown of him flex with each invasion, each withdrawal. The exquisite hot-wet clasp of a fledgling’s trembling body, slick and honey-sweet, the quiet sounds wrung from a gasping throat -- all were pleasures so rich they threatened to overwhelm.

It went on for a long time. The sound of renewed rain on the windows crept through the great room, delicate counterpoint to wetter sounds, strangled gasps and moans. The fledgling could not soften with the leather band around him, not even when the pain of moving blossomed with raw burn. Vorador’s chitin-edged hands never left Raziel’s hips, guiding, subtly setting the slow but relentless pace. Every time the fledgling paused or shuddered, Vorador murmured, Whispered, slipped a new image into the youngling’s shock-open mind. Lightning and ozone, cruel dark lips and skin like bleached linen, the metal-talcum scent of an vampire now more elder than fledgling. “How he would enjoy this, whelp...” Vorador’s voice was an insidious rumble, “...enjoy stalking around you, listening, watching... he might mount you as well, push in alongside me. Could you be trained to like that, I wonder? Or -- ah!” Vorador inhaled hard, shuddering, “...would you rather have his mouth, whilst I use you like this?”

Raziel shivered at the thought. Kain rarely condescended to such things, much preferring to be worshipped with lips and tongue by his progeny, and the thought of that dark mouth wrapped around his cock, taking possession as surely as Kain did the rest of his body, was a tantalizing fantasy indeed. And far less intimidating than the thought of being broken open by two elders at once ….

But while Raziel was a vampire, with a vampire’s inhuman stamina, he was still young for an immortal. Less than a century old, he had no chance at all at matching Vorador’s seemingly inexhaustible strength, and as time wore on, his response to each new shift, every thrust grew more muted as his strength waned. All thought or sense of time fled as Raziel endured Vorador’s possession, leaving behind a creature that worked only upon instinct, muscles shivering as they strove to tighten around that invading cock, to lift and meet each slow rolling surge. His black-clawed fingers were strengthless as they clung for purchase, and he no longer offered the barest scrap of resistance--his body limp and open in exhaustion, low keens and hitched cries escaping from his throat. And underneath it all, inchoate Whispered pleas of _please, my lord, need … touch, please Sire, more--no more, want need hurt need …._

As the fledgling weakened, Vorador’s hands grew harder, crueler, guiding and then pressing and then forcing the youngling down upon his shaft, enjoying every penetration, grotesquely deep. Trapped by the band around its base, Raziel’s cock flushed dark, purpled, wonderfully sensitive. Sublime, this fledgling, those gasping cries in his ear, those trembling brushes against his mind. He stoked those pleas higher, harder, ignoring the tremble they sent up his spine. _*Sire.*_

But pain was beginning to cloud the fledgling’s sundered mind, cries interspersed with whimpers, and Vorador relented. Letting the limp body settle into his lap, Vorador trailed clawtips around Raziel’s hip, found the buckle of the leather band, and cut it free. He steadied Raziel when the fledgling cried out, the sensation of being released too much for a youngling already pushed to his limit. Vorador closed his talons around the bruised-looking organ, stroking gently. His voice was hitching, choked, on the verge of control. “Good boy... come for me.”

Raziel convulsed, a hoarse cry that was almost a scream tearing itself from his throat as his long-delayed pleasure caught him up in a fierce and sudden orgasm. It had been so long that he had almost given up any thought of achieving his release, suffering blindly in a kind of purgatorial haze. Vorador’s mercy, belated as it was, caught him completely by surprise, and he trembled and shook, every muscle spasming painfully tight as he came, his cock jerking, seed spattering upon the hard planes of Vorador’s chest and belly in blissful, agonizing spurts. His ecstasy was eternal, a timeless moment of freedom--

\--and then darkness began to eat at the edges of his vision. Shivering and strengthless, Raziel listed sideways in the elder’s grasp, even as his body continued to spasm helplessly about Vorador’s unyielding cock.

Gripping the fledgling’s hips a little too hard, Vorador followed the whelp’s descent into bliss, his roar like the roll of thunder. A few hard, shuddering thrusts up into the rag-doll body, savoring the utter lack of resistance and the velvet clasp -- incredible that the fledgling should remain so tight, even after being used like this -- and Vorador flooded the youngling, forcing his seed deep into Raziel’s clenching belly. The first few spurts pulsed hard, but even as Vorador collapsed back into his throne, the fledgling’s body continued to ripple on him, drawing forth another throbbing ejaculation, and then another, paradise brightened by the sharp edge of pain.

Lazily, exhausted, Vorador caught the fledgling before he could topple over sideways, and gathered the limp form against his chest. The fledgling’s shudders drew one final rolling frission of pleasure from his organ, one last tremoring injection of seed.

Demanding little whelp, this one.

Vorador relaxed slowly, permitting his great cock to gradually soften, the fledgling lying hot across his chest, his thoughts as slow and ornate as the creep of his swamp. Oh, my. That... that was glorious. Vorador had been minded to abandon the fledgling here, on the cold flagstones, while Vorador went about his business for the day. But the creature had served him so well....

When his own limbs ceased their trembling, Vorador tightened his grip on the cradled fledgling, and then stood, ignoring the half-unconscious cry as Raziel tightened again around his cock. The subtle twitch of a talon, a whispered word, and the world twisted around them in a flare of blue, settling after a moment into the familiar furniture of the chamber in which Raziel had awoken. The blood and fluids of Raziel’s earlier torment were gone, now, as if they’d never been spilled.

With all due care, Vorador laid the fledgling onto the heavy brocade cover of the massive bed, his cock shifting inside. “Most entertaining, little knight,” he informed the utterly limp fledgling. “You shall attend me again in the same capacity, tomorrow morning. Until then...” reaching out, the elder plucked an object from the empty air -- another stout plug, with a painfully large egg-shaped bulb, a short narrow shaft, and flattened base. “...I trust you can adequately divert yourself.” Slowly, Vorador began to withdraw his cock from Raziel. Even softened and thoroughly slick, it slipped out reluctantly, one inch at a time.

Raziel whimpered at the sensation, every millimeter of flesh feeling as if it had been abraded raw both inside and out. The dragging withdrawal only heightened the feeling of being broken open, stretched thin, all his bones turned to water. He registered belatedly the shift in location, the diffused light from the still open balcony doors. It was … the room. The beginning of all of this--no. That was not right. There had been a fire … a city, and his Sire. Kain had warned him … His eyelids fell without his intending them to, and seemed heavy as mountains as he struggled to lift them again. He could not sleep, not here--there was Zephon, and the elder--both equally dangerous in entirely different ways. He had to stay awake … there was a rumble in the air, Vorador speaking. The words made no sense, and he could not prevent another incoherent sound of protest as the last of the elder’s flesh pulled free from his body, his hole stretching around the broad head of that cock one last time.

His fingers twitched, spreading over the brocade as he tried to speak. But the words fled long before they ever reached his lips, disappearing into the darkness behind his eyes. With a last, monumental effort, Raziel managed to send an open, questioning and wordless Whisper.

... in the shadows of the hallway outside, bright golden eyes watched--and Zephon licked his fangs.

The elder cupped that fragile sending in the palm of his own psyche, exquisitely careful with the young, unshielded mind. _Yes. Good fledgling...._ Vorador murmured, and then paused. The tip of one long ear twitched.

He’d forgotten -- had actually managed to forget -- just how truly entertaining a house full of young spawn could be. The corner of Vorador’s mouth twitched up. _Easy. Rest..._ he Whispered, even as he brought the cold steel knob to nudge at the fledgling’s thoroughly stretched, reddened little hole. He toyed with the plug for a moment to coat it in fluids, and then pressed it firmly inside, relishing the way Raziel’s body twitched and jerked in unconscious response. Vorador stepped back, blood and come still liberally coating his hide, expression inscrutable. He lifted his hand, gestured -- and vanished in a flash of blue.


End file.
